


Nothing Burns Like The Cold

by simonetta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Jon is a wildling, R Plus L Equals J, Wildling Jon Snow, but i promise it ends in bed sharing again, if you know what i mean, that then turns into a full au of the wars, this best way to describe this is ye olde road trip/bed sharing au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonetta/pseuds/simonetta
Summary: When Mance Rayder decides to relive the tale of Bael the Bard by stealing Eddard Stark's prettiest daughter, it's his young companion, Jon, who pays the price.orThe AU where Jon somehow ends up raised by Mance as a wildling and steals Sansa by accident - which of course leads to those dorks falling in love.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 345
Kudos: 786





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my holiday gift to you lovely people. 
> 
> Please harass me if I haven't updated Beasts of Seasons by Sunday <3 
> 
> (as always, this is based on the book characters so if my character descriptions don't match Kit and Sophie, that's why)

He wasn’t supposed to steal the girl. 

He didn’t even _want_ to steal the girl. 

Yes, she was beautiful with her long red hair that didn’t look so much like fire (like Ygritte’s had) as it did like blood. And her eyes were a shade of blue he’d never seen before – not the pale, grey blue of the rivers he knew – the ones full of glacial silt from the Frostfangs. Not even the dark blue of the evening sky or the light blue of the day. It was simply a shade of blue that seemed to belong to her and her alone. 

And, yes, her pale skin looked soft and warm. And the pink that spread across her cheeks and neck when she got flustered or angry made his breath come a little short. So did the soft line of her jaw and those full, pink lips. Maybe he liked the way pale freckles dotted her skin. And, yes, there was something about the pretty, silk dress she wore and the delicate style of her hair and the dainty fur-lined cloak that was so _different_ from every woman he’d known. 

But Jon didn’t want to steal her.

Truthfully, _he_ didn’t steal her. Mance did. But somehow that didn’t feel like it mattered much, because here he was dragging the poor girl through the snow, farther and farther from her warm kneeler keep with each step. 

When they’d parted ways with Mance and the others a few days back, agreeing to meet up once they were back on their side of the Wall, Jon had been livid he was chosen to take the girl. 

“You know the way best,” Mance had told him. “How many times have you been here raiding? You know the way, and you are more of an age with her than any of us. She’ll give you less trouble – you’re pretty, after all.” 

Jon had wanted to wipe the smirk on his king’s face away with a fist. All his life, Mance had been like a father to Jon – a fatherless, motherless foundling who didn’t even have a clan. But in that moment, with the Stark girl weeping behind them, he’d wanted nothing more than to draw the kneeler sword he’d won in battle years ago from his back and teach Mance that not everyone still believed he deserved the title of King-Beyond-the-Wall.

Instead, Jon had nodded, grabbed the girl by the rope that bound her wrists, and prepared their horses. 

With a huff of irritation, Jon looked over at the girl sleeping near the fire. Even in sleep, she clutched her cloak close to her chest as if afraid. That made him frown. He didn’t want her to be so afraid. 

_You shouldn’t have stolen her. He shouldn’t have stolen her. You should take her back to her family._

He sighed and poked at the fire, ignoring the ugly truth that really, deep in his heart, Jon was a little glad they had stolen the girl with blood in her hair only if it meant he could witness her beauty for a little while longer. 

* 

“You’re making a mistake.”

He ignored her, pulling her mare along by the reins to ensure she kept the pace of his horse. 

“My father will come for me. He’ll send all his bannermen and the Night’s Watch too. My uncle is First Ranger, you know. And my father is very good friends with the king. They’re like brothers. And I’m betrothed to the crown prince. The whole might of the Seven Kingdoms will come for me.”

For three days she hadn’t said a word to him. She’d barely even looked at him. But, for some unknown reason, when the sun rose on the fourth day after they’d separated from Mance and the others, the Stark girl decided to open her mouth. 

“They’ll kill you for this, and not pleasantly I imagine. They’ll kill those others too. They’ve probably already found them and _made_ them tell where we are going. My father will be waiting there for me.”

Jon continued to ignore her, mostly because he knew she was right. Not that Mance or the others would ever say anything about where they’d agree to meet up again. But there was a fair chance they’d already been caught. There was a fair chance he’d be caught soon too. He hadn’t known she was betrothed to the southern prince. But, really, what difference did that make? It was bad enough that Mance stole the eldest and prettiest daughter of Lord Stark. The kneelers would come anyway. The King-Beyond-The-Wall was counting on that, after all. 

“If you so much as _touch_ me it will be a thousand times worse. They won’t just kill you. They’ll draw it out.”

At that Jon’s brows drew together in concern. He turned, looking back at his captive. Her cheeks were rosy red from the cold – and likely from anger too – and her once immaculate braided hairstyle was pulling apart, leaving long, curling tendrils of crimson spilling down her shoulders. The look on her face was fierce in a way he hadn’t expected from such a delicate woman. He couldn’t help but think her beauty put even Val’s pretty features to shame, and Dalla’s sister was the most beautiful woman Jon had ever known. 

“I’ve no intention to touch you, girl.”

The Stark girl pursed her lips. The plain fear that was evident in her eyes despite her scowl made Jon feel a little smaller. He hated that he scared her, which was foolish considering he’d bloody aided in stealing her from her home. Of course she’d think he meant to hurt her – to _touch_ her. Jon was sure his words did little to quiet this fear. “I never have and never will _touch_ a woman who does not want to be _touched_.” 

To his surprise, the Stark girl rolled her eyes at him. She let out a little puff, her warm breath curling into smoke in the cold air. “You’re a wildling. I know what you savages are like. I’m no fool. Say or do what you want, but know the pain my father and my king and my prince will inflict upon on you will be worse than anything in the Seven Hells.”

“I don’t believe in the Seven Hells,” Jon grumbled, turning away from her again. 

“Of course you don’t,” the Stark girl scoffed.

She was quiet after that. But the silence just left Jon with his thoughts – which mostly reflected on the fact that she was absolutely right that the might of the south would descend upon the free lands, and just how much he _hated_ that she thought him to be the kind of man that would force himself on a girl.

*

“I truly don’t intend to hurt you,” he told her over their small fire that night. 

She’d complained when he made the fire – told him it wasn’t nearly enough to keep her warm. But he had no choice. A larger fire would attract her father and brother to their position. So there they sat, huddling before the pitiful fire in the shelter of a small overhang. Nights like this made Jon miss Ghost, but Mance had rightly insisted the wolf be kept north of the Wall. It wouldn’t be long now until they reunited. Jon had seen where Ghost was waiting in his dreams the night before. They were less than a fortnight away now. 

The Stark girl was silent beside him. She shivered despite the luxurious fur cloak fastened around her body. He wasn’t sure if it was cold or fear or both. It was probably both. “Then let me go home,” she murmured. “Let them find us. I’ll even beg them for your life. You weren’t the one who took me. It was that older one – Mance. He’s your leader, right? Let me go and I’ll tell them you helped me. It was Mance who took me.”

Jon frowned. He very much doubted she would – or that if she did it would make any difference. “I can’t do that.”

She stared up at him. Her sapphire eyes looked like midnight blue pools in the darkness. “Why did he take me, then? Why are you helping him? You won’t return me home, but you don’t intend to hurt me or to… to dishonor me. Why did you do it?” He could hear the anger in her words. She did little to disguise it. He wouldn’t have guessed when he saw her back in Winterfell, but the girl had a temper that burned strongly. 

“We need a hostage – a bargaining piece. Who better than the daughter of Eddard Stark? My people need to come south and you're our key to passing through the Wall.”

He didn’t tell her that Mance thought it was hilarious; a classic retelling of Bael the Bard. He didn’t tell her it was to shame her father and her people. He didn’t tell her that he was fairly certain Mance’s insistence she could be used to bargain for safer lands was an afterthought once he’d already stolen the girl. He definitely didn’t tell her what it meant to be stolen. The thought of Mance claiming the right he’d won over her made him want to be sick or draw his kneeler sword or maybe both.

“Why? So, you can raid?”

He scoffed. “ _No._ There’s… a threat… beyond the Wall.” She looked like she was about to ask him another question, so Jon abruptly stood. The last thing she needed was another reason to fear where he was taking her. He doubted learning about the Others would be much help. “Get some sleep. We have a long trek tomorrow.”

“ _I’m cold._ ” 

“It’s going to be colder where we are going,” he snapped, annoyed. 

To his surprise, she burst into tears. Jon was no stranger to her crying – their whole first day and night together had been filled with her sobs and whimpers and sniffles. But for some reason, standing there above their pitiful fire watching her break apart hit him differently. That isn’t to say her earlier tears didn’t affect him. They’d made him felt guiltier and more like scum than he ever had in his life. 

But this? Her utter misery and hopelessness cut him deep. 

“Hey,” Jon murmured, crouching near her. When he tried to put a hand on her shoulder she flinched away. 

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” the girl snarled. “I want to go _home_.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her softly. “I’m so sorry.” 

And he meant it. 

* 

She didn’t speak to him again until the day they reached the Wall. 

“Mance is wrong, you know. And I lied.”

Startled by the sound of her soft voice after a week of silence, Jon turned back to look at her. She was sullen yet somehow still radiantly beautiful after nearly three long weeks in the bush. “What?”

“They won’t come for me. Father will; Uncle Benjen too, and Robb. But the king won’t and neither will Joffrey. My father doesn’t have the authority to let your people come through the Wall. So, your leader is wrong, taking me isn’t going to help you. It’ll probably just make things worse.”

Her blue eyes were fixed on the huge mass of ice before them. They were dull and passionless, and Jon thought that more than anything else made him feel like a monster. 

“You said you were going to marry the prince. Surely he’d come for his woman.”

The girl shook her head. “I _was_ , but it doesn’t matter whether or not you or the others dishonor me. Everyone will assume it’s happened. I’m ruined. I’m tainted. I can never be a queen now. I doubt even one of my father’s bannermen will want me – that is if I ever even return home.”

Jon felt sick. Her voice was hollow, and no tears stained her pretty cheeks, but her words cut through him sharper than any blade. He didn’t understand kneeler custom when it came to women and marriage – he had no respect for it either, but he wasn’t dumb or naïve. He knew enough about her world to understand, now, just what Mance and Jon and the others had taken from her. 

The life they’d stolen. The dreams. 

“My father will come for me and he will kill you and all your people, then he will take me home and I’ll spend the rest of my life as my father’s and then my brother’s ward. If I’m lucky, maybe some poor or unknown knight from the south will have me, but I doubt it. So, you see, this is all for _nothing_. You’ve ruined both of us.”

He said nothing, choosing instead to simply pull the reins of her mare and continue on their way.

He’d never felt like more of a coward. 

*

That night she asked him how far they were from Castle Black. 

“Too far to run. You’ll die of cold before you make it.”

“I’ll die anyways.”

He looked at her fiercely, a sudden urge to protect her crashed over him like summer storm. “You won’t. I’ll protect you.”

The girl narrowed her eyes, her soft lips pulled down into a harsh frown. “Do you truly expect me to believe that?”

No. No he didn’t. But, gods, did he want her to. 

They ate the rabbit he’d caught that afternoon in silence, the ever-present shadow of the Wall looming over them even in the darkness. A constant reminder of the different worlds they’d inhabited their whole lives. 

“Your uncle,” Jon said much later, as their tiny fire began to die and the cold truly set in. “He’s First Ranger.”

The girl nodded. 

“All I know about crows is how to kill them. Does the First Ranger hold sway?”

She nodded again. “He answers to the Lord Commander, but nobody else, save the king.”

Jon frowned, trying to ignore the blossoming idea that had taken root in his heart. 

He had a duty to Mance. A duty to his people. Whatever Mance’s reasons for taking the Stark girl, and despite what she’d told him that afternoon, she could still prove to be an asset in negotiating their way south. But then again, Jon knew that if someone had stolen his daughter, he’d never listen to reason. He’d never forgive. He’d never save a people from destruction because they gave her back. 

Especially if what she’d said was true – that they could never truly give back what they’d stolen. 

“Will we climb the Wall?”

He turned to her, then, and found those piercing eyes boring into him. “No,” he murmured. “There are other ways through it. It’d be too difficult to climb with you.”

Strangely, she seemed disappointed. The girl’s next words made him wish he’d drawn Longclaw all those weeks ago when Mance had appeared in camp with the girl – smirking and laughing and mocking and boasting, all while Sansa – _for she had a name and that name was Sansa_ – sobbed at his side, eyes wide and fearful. She’d been wearing silk slippers, Jon remembered. He’d been the only one to think to offer her the one spare pair of boots they had. The same boots that had given her blisters in recent days because they were far too large for her and she was sick of riding, choosing to walk now and then instead. 

In that moment, when Mance first brought her to camp, as in others that followed, Jon had wanted to challenge Mance there and then. He’d wanted to steal the girl back and bring her home. He’d wanted to do a great many things, but he’d been a coward and had forced a laugh from his throat, ignoring the way she shook with the force of her sobs. 

But the girl’s next words made him more ashamed than ever – made him angrier than ever – made him want to set the entire world on fire. 

“That’s a shame,” Sansa Stark muttered, sweet voice devoid of emotion. “I’d thought to jump and spare myself the rest.”

*

When they came to the familiar gnarled oak Jon had been looking for, he paused only a moment before turning their horses east along the Wall. 

In the back of his mind, he reminded himself that he’d need to reach out to Ghost after the girl fell asleep. 

Ghost would be expecting him to have turned west. 

A great many people would be expecting him to have turned west. 

* 

“Can I tell you a secret?” the Stark girl asked Jon one afternoon. 

Startled from his thoughts, Jon looked over at her. Whatever expression of surprise was on his face she must have accepted as permission, because before he could respond she spoke again. 

“I didn’t want to marry the prince. Well, I did at first. I wanted to go south; I wanted to be a queen. I thought that he’d be like the princes in the songs – Like the Prince of Dragonflies or Prince Aemon or King Jaeherys. But he isn’t. Joffrey is wretched.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Sansa shrugged and adjusted her cloak. “I never could voice that thought at home. I had a duty to my family and my kingdom. What I wanted didn’t matter – all that mattered was joining the Baratheons and the Starks.”

Jon frowned. “You kneelers are cruel.”

The girl scoffed. “ _We_ are cruel? You’re the one who kidnapped me from my home in the dead of night. You’re the uncivilized-”

“Women of the Free Folk are _free_ ,” Jon interrupted, not wanting to be reminded of his guilt. “They aren’t forced to marry anyone because of a bloody name. They choose their men.”

To his surprise, the Stark girl laughed – it was almost melodic and would have been the prettiest sound he’d ever heard if it hadn’t carried an undertone of bitter anger. “Oh no, you wildlings never force a woman to do anything against her will.” 

Jon felt his face redden, but it wasn’t as if he could argue the point. 

*

The first true autumn storm set in only days away from their destination. Jon had planned on pushing through it, but then Sansa’s mare tripped on a root hidden by snow and broke a leg and the next thing he knew he was turning the girl away and drawing his kneeler sword from the scabbard on his back. 

The mare’s blood was a red as the Stark girl’s hair. _Sansa’s_ hair. 

Red against white. Blood against snow. Leaves against bark. Hair against skin. 

Eyes against fur. 

Ghost – Ghost who knew the secret way through the Wall – should be there any day now. 

Sansa was weeping again. Jon sheathed his sword and pulled her into him, surprised she didn’t resist his attempt at comfort. He swallowed, throat suddenly thick with emotion, as the Stark girl clung to him sobbing. Her gloved fingers – long and delicate – pulled against his coarse leather and wool and fur. He was taller than her by a head, and though he knew it wasn’t the time to dwell on such things, Jon couldn’t help but notice how perfectly her face tucked into the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

“I’m so cold,” she whimpered into him. “I’m so cold and I’m so tired and I don’t even know your name.”

He’d lifted her onto his horse then, mounting it as well a moment later. After pulling her back against his chest he continued on through the snow. Jon tugged his thick, black crow's cloak – another battle prize – around her body as well as his own, desperate to stop her shaking. As soon as he saw suitable shelter to wait out the storm, he stopped and built a fire. A real fire this time. 

She continued to cry as he removed first his cloak and then her own; as he nudged her onto the rough, pine needles that carpeted the floor of the small hollow he’d found; as he gathered up their cloaks, layering the furs one on top the other; as he lay down beside her, flush against her back, keeping her body between him and the fire. Jon didn’t hesitate before pulling the Stark girl - _Sansa_ \- closer against his body and draping their overlapping furs above them. 

“I won’t touch you more than this. I swear it. This is only so we don’t freeze.”

She nodded, the back of her head bumping against his nose. His world had become red between her hair and the fire. 

“Jon,” he whispered to her a moment later. “My name is Jon.”

For the first time in weeks he felt warm and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling just a little bit when he felt Sansa’s shivering subside. The curve of her body was soft and solid and warm. He liked the way she fit against him, even the way she smelled despite the conditions they’d been traveling in. After weeks in the wild, she still smelled faintly of roses. 

“That’s a Westerosi name,” the girl murmured, sniffling still. 

“Mance named me after he found me as a babe. He was a brother of the Night’s Watch before he came north of the Wall, I suppose that’s why he chose a southern name.”

“Jon,” she whispered. The sound of his name in her sweet voice made something deep in his chest ache. 

Sansa leaned back against his chest as the warmth spread between them, and as if having been granted a special permission, Jon let the arm he had draped across her waist grow heavier; let his hand turn and pull him closer to him; let his forehead dip to rest against the crown of her head. 

“Sansa,” he whispered back against the crimson of her hair. It was the first time he’d spoken her name aloud. Jon liked the way it rolled off his tongue, as pretty and as melodious as the girl it belonged to. Lord and Lady Stark had chosen well. 

The last thought that ran through his head before nodding off into sleep was that though her hair looked more like blood than flame, Sansa Stark had fire within her. 

*

He woke up to a scream and the sharp bite of nails digging into his skin. Wildly, he opened his eyes and found Sansa’s boring into him – wide with fear. Jon slowly registered that she’d turned into his chest and was pressing so tightly against him it was hard to breathe. Her hands clutched at his arms so forcefully that he could feel the pinch of her nails through the wool there. 

“Behind us!” She whispered harshly, voice high and strained in panic. “A direwolf!” 

Finally looking away from her, Jon saw Ghost sitting at the mouth of the hollow. He smiled. 

“That’s just Ghost,” he murmured, letting his hands slip to hold her loosely. 

“It’s no ghost! That is a _direwolf_!”

At that Jon laughed – at least he laughed until she started to cry again. 

“No, no,” he told her. “His _name_ is Ghost.” Jon moved his hand to cradle her head in some attempt at comfort – some attempt at abating the guilt stirring in him at laughing at her fear. “He’s a friend. He won’t hurt you.”

Still, the Stark girl clung tighter to his body, and all of a sudden Jon was rather too aware of the press of her breasts against his chest and length of her thighs against his own. He cleared his throat. “Here,” he murmured, untangling himself from her grip. “Watch.” 

Pulling himself from her warmth, Jon rose. The cold air hit him like an arrow to the chest, but he did his best not to grimace. Jon opened his mouth to call to Ghost before deciding that encouraging his direwolf to come towards the frightened girl wouldn’t help. Instead, he moved towards the animal. 

“You came, boy.” He greeted Ghost with a smile and scratched the wolf behind his ears like Jon knew he liked. The direwolf, now fully grown, was enormous. Three times the size of a normal wolf. Looking behind him, Jon saw Sansa staring with wide eyes, her mouth open in shock. “See,” he told her. “Ghost is a friend. He came here because I asked him too. He’s my… companion, I suppose.” 

The Stark girl’s eyes got impossibly wider and she burrowed further into their shared cloaks. “Like a dog?” she murmured.

Jon frowned. “In a way, I suppose.” He didn’t think Sansa would take him being a warg very well, so he held his tongue. Jon scooped up his waterskin. “I’m going to go get us water. Ghost will keep you safe.”

She eyed the wolf suspiciously but didn’t protest. 

He was still so flustered by the feeling of her body pressed against his own that Jon didn’t realize he’d left his cloak behind until he was already at the creek near the hollow. 

When he entered their small shelter again, the sight before him stopped Jon in his tracks. The Stark girl was sitting before the fire, his thicker cloak draped around her slim shoulders, with Ghost’s heavy head in her lap. Her fingers dragged through the wolf’s tangled, white fur, pulling burrs and dried mud away while softly singing a tune that Jon could have sworn he’d heard Mance sing a time or two. When Sansa’s blue eyes lifted from his wolf to his face, Jon’s heart stuttered a moment. “You forgot a cloak,” she told him. 

He had to stop himself from asking her to sing again. Instead, he shrugged and handed her the water. “I’m used to the cold.”

The girl frowned. “What will happen to me when we are on the other side of the Wall?” 

Jon set his shoulders and looked away. “You aren’t going to the other side of the Wall.”

All of a sudden, he felt colder. Looking back at the girl and his wolf, he saw that Sansa had removed her hand from Ghost’s fur. Instead, her fingers were clasped in front of the swell of her chest, as if she were protecting herself from some unseen evil. Those brilliant blue eyes were wide again, this time drowned in both fear and sorrow. “If you are going to kill me,” she whispered, “please do it soon, and please do it quickly.”

Jon’s throat suddenly felt tighter. He furrowed his brows. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you – what makes you think I mean to kill you now?”

“Why else would I not cross the Wall?” 

Scoffing, Jon shook his head. “You misunderstood. I’m taking you to your uncle.” 

Impossibly, her eyes got wider as her mouth parted in a silent gasp. Jon looked away quickly, not liking the images her plump, open lips conjured in his mind. There was a shuffling noise and all of a sudden, a warm hand curled around his arm. He could smell the scent of rose that clung to her – though maybe that was Ghost who was tracking her scent. Over the years it’d become near impossible to know where he ended and Ghost began. 

“They’ll kill you,” Sansa said softly. “I know I said I would plead for you, but it won’t matter. They’ll kill you.”

Jon kept his eyes on the fire. “You don’t know that,” he told her, but Jon knew she was right. He’d known it the moment he turned their horses right at that oak days ago. He’d known it the first time his eyes got caught on her lips. He’d known it the first time her tears made him ache. He’d known it the moment Mance dragged her into camp. 

Sansa Stark would be the death of him. 

“ _I do_ ,” Sansa told him. “My father has beheaded men for less.”

He shrugged her off of his arm stalked away. “I’m getting more firewood,” he said gruffly. “Stay here with Ghost.”

Only once he was back in the biting wind did Jon realize he’d forgotten his cloak again.

* 

Despite his silent prayers, the storm raged all day. Jon and Sansa sat huddled by their fire, Ghost stretched out lazily between them, as the hours wore by. He felt like he was going mad – being stuck in such a small place made Jon antsy, and it didn’t help that he was stuck with the Sansa and it especially didn’t help that her smell and her warmth and the soft sound of her breathing was overwhelming his senses thanks to Ghost’s proximity. 

Gods, he could kill that wolf. 

Why the damned animal had taken to the Stark girl so quickly was no mystery to Jon – but all the same he chose not to examine the likely reason too hard. Even with Val it had taken Ghost a good week or so to warm up to her soft touches and frequent presence. 

With Sansa Stark it had taken a matter of minutes. 

Jon let his eyes drop to the wolf in annoyance. Ghost had his head on Sansa’s lap again, his tongue lolling out like a dog’s as her elegant fingers braided and unbraided his shaggy winter coat. Every now and then the ridiculous beast would nuzzle into her leg making the girl giggle. 

She accidentally tugged a little too hard on one braid and a shiver ran down Jon’s back. 

Unbidden, images of her tugging on _his_ hair were conjured in his mind. Images that included his head between what he imagined were soft, cream-white thighs. 

Gods, he was going to go mad in this damned hollow. They hadn’t spoken since Jon had returned with firewood, grumbling about the snow and wind and the need to stay in the shelter. Every few minutes, though, Jon could feel her gaze on him. Finally, she broke the silence. 

“If you went back over the Wall, what would happen?”

Jon furrowed his brows, his brooding frown deepening. “What do you mean?” 

She scratched behind Ghost’s ears earning a happy sigh from the wolf. Jon nearly rolled his eyes at the beast’s smitten behavior. It was laughable now to remember her fear of Ghost only hours before. Laughable if he wasn’t so damn annoyed. 

“Say you were to take me just outside of Castle Black, but then turn back and cross the Wall with Ghost. What would happen to you?”

He clenched his jaw. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“If I lie and say you escaped, I’ll be mocked the rest of my life and be shunned as a coward and weakling for losing a kneeler woman. If I tell the truth and say I let you return to your family, I’ll be killed as a traitor.”

Sansa frowned. Not for the first time did Jon note that even when frowning she was stunning. “You could go south. Nobody would know you.” 

A sudden anger gripped him then. “Why do you care?” he snarled. “What does it matter what happens to me? You said it yourself, I’ve ruined you – so why do you give a bloody damn what becomes of me?”

Clearly startled by his outburst, Sansa’s hand tightened in Ghost fur causing Jon to wince. 

“You should _hate_ me,” Jon continued, his anger growing by the second. “You should grab my sword or my dagger and slit my throat while I sleep. You should steal the horse while I’m collecting firewood. You should-”

“And what good would that do me?” Sansa suddenly spit out. “I don’t know where I am or where to go or how to survive out here by myself!” She stood abruptly and made as if she meant to storm out of the hollow before realizing that the blizzard was still raging beyond. With an audible huff of anger, Sansa primly sat back down across the fire from where Jon sat. “I _hate_ this storm,” she exclaimed. “And I do _hate_ you. And I _hate_ Mance. I don’t care what happens to you!” 

“Good!”

“Good!”

They sat in silence again, this time more tense and strained. It felt as if the air around them was crackling – the way it did just before a summer storm. 

With a huff, Ghost rose and padded across the small space to curl around Sansa’s body protectively. This time Jon did nothing to hide his exasperation with the wolf – rolling his eyes and scoffing. “Of course you’d take her side!”

Sansa clenched her jaw and stared him down; her blue eyes shining with rage; her pale cheeks rosy with frustration; her hands wrapping around Ghost’s neck protectively. “You should be ashamed a _direwolf_ has better courtesy than you.”

With a growl of anger, Jon grabbed Longclaw and strode out of the hollow into the storm. Once outside, he wasn’t quite sure _what_ to do, but he knew he couldn’t spend another minute stuck so close to the damned Stark girl.

* 

When he returned an hour later, it was with two hares and more wood for the fire. 

Sansa was resting her head against Ghost’s stomach drawing patterns in the pine needles on the ground with her finger. She sat up with a start when he entered. Their eyes met for a quick moment before Jon dropped his gaze to the fire. 

“I got dinner,” he murmured. 

“I’m not hungry.” As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. Despite himself, Jon looked up and smirked. Sansa’s face turned nearly as red as her hair. She huffed and looked away, arms crossed against her chest in a way that only served to push her already generous bust up. 

He clenched his jaw, ignoring the heat low in his belly, and began to prepare the hares over the fire. The smell of cooking meat finally seemed to draw Ghost out of his languid puppy love. The wolf rose, nudged Jon’s shoulder affectionately, and trotted out of the hollow. Jon watched Sansa’s eyes follow the animal’s movement, bitterly resenting how much the disappointment in her gaze bothered him.

“He’ll be back,” he muttered. “He’s just hunting.”

Silence fell again as Jon focused on the task before him. 

“I am grateful you know,” Sansa said after a long while. “That you are taking me to my uncle.”

Jon looked up to find her staring at him. She’d redone her hair while he was out, he noticed. It was pulled back in two thick crimson braids now in a way that made the delicate cut of her jaw and elegant slope of her neck even more apparent. He swallowed thickly. 

“You shouldn’t be.”

“But I am. You’re betraying your king and putting your life in danger. That’s no small thing.”

Jon focused on the fire, uncomfortable under her intense gaze. 

“You said your people needed to come south because of a threat. Is this going to hurt them?”

He clenched his jaw again. Guilt swirled in his gut. “I don’t know. There wasn’t much of a chance even if we had you as a hostage.”

Sansa was silent for a beat. “What is the threat?”

Looking back up at her, Jon sighed. “You’ve heard of the Long Night? Of the Others?”

Her eyes widened. “Those are stories – they aren’t real.”

“They are very real. And what is it you Starks always say? _Winter is coming_?”

“You’re lying.”

Jon shrugged. “I wish I was lying, but I’m not. Entire villages have been wiped out already. The Others are back, and we aren’t safe north of the Wall.”

Sansa pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and watched as Jon began to cut apart the cooked hare. 

*

“You look like a Stark, you know.” Frowning, Jon turned his head to look at her in the glow of the fire. They’d laid down to sleep a while ago – this time a safe distance apart from one another. As if sensing his gaze she turned to meet it. “Your grey eyes,” Sansa continued. “Those are Stark eyes. And your nose and jaw; your hair too. With that beard you look just like my father.”

“I’m not a Stark.”

Sansa scoffed and looked away again. “I’m aware.”

He hesitated a moment. “If I look like a Stark, you don’t look like one at all.”

“My mother is a Tully. Everyone says I look like my mother.”

“Your mother must be very beautiful then.” Immediately, Jon could feel a flush creep up his neck. Gods, why did he say that out loud?

Sansa was quiet for a long time – so long that Jon closed his eyes and wished he could just sink into the ground below his back. “How did you get those scars?” Sansa asked, finally breaking the painful silence. “The ones across your eye?”

Jon thought of Orell and grimaced. “An eagle.”

“An eagle attacked you?”

He sighed and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face and silently pleading for Ghost to come back and distract Sansa. “I made enemies with another skinchanger – when I killed him, he warged into his eagle and attacked me.”

It took him a moment to realize what he’d said, but when he did Jon couldn’t help but let out a curse. _Why_ was he being such an utter idiot tonight?

“Another? You’re a… a skinchanger?” Sansa’s voice was quiet and laced with fear. Naturally, Ghost chose that moment to come loping back in, muzzle wet with blood. Sansa gasped, fingers curling into her cloak. 

Jon tugged the wolf towards him and roughly wiped at his snout with the edge of his cloak, grumbling a litany of curses. When he finally let Ghost go, Jon turned back to Sansa. “Yes. That’s why Ghost and I are so close. It’s how he knew where to find us.” 

Her eyes were wide in fright again and Jon wanted nothing more than to wander out into the storm and let himself freeze to death. 

“I… I didn’t think wargs were real either.”

“Well… we are,” he told her lamely. Jon watched as her blue eyes darted between him and Ghost in the dim light. 

“Old Nan told us that wargs take on the nature of their beasts,” she whispered. 

“That’s only if you look through their eyes for too long.” 

He refused to tell her that he could sense what Ghost could – that he could feel her fingers in the wolf’s fur like they were dancing across _his_ skin; tugging at _his_ hair. No, she didn’t need to know that he knew her scent by heart now; that the mix of her sweat and roses and something indefinably _her_ was forever stamped in his brain. She _certainly_ didn’t need to know that he’d been on the verge of madness since Ghost arrived that morning because the direwolf’s proximity filled his nose with the tangy scent between her thighs and the shameful desire he’d been nursing for weeks was suddenly so much harder to ignore. 

Suddenly, strangely, she giggled. “Maybe you are a Stark after all – you look like my father and you’re a direwolf like our sigil. Perhaps you’re my long-lost brother.”

Stunned at her sudden laughter, Jon stared at her dumbly for a moment. “I’m no Stark,” he muttered. No brother should wonder what his sister tastes like. 

Ghost settled between them then, laying down with a contented sigh that made Jon roll his eyes. When Sansa turned, curling around the wolf and pressing her face into his fur, Jon had to grip his cloak tightly to keep from audibly groaning. 

Long after he heard Sansa’s breath even out – after he heard her heartbeat slow slightly through Ghost’s ears – he lay wide awake staring up and cursing every god that had led him to this place and every god that had brought this storm upon them. 

* 

Apparently, the gods truly hated him, because the next morning the storm was if anything _worse_ than it had been the day before. Jon sat the entrance to their hollow, glaring out at the white world beyond with a scowl on his face. 

“I suppose it is too cold to bathe.”

An image of her naked and writhing in those hot springs Ygritte had once dragged him to flashed before his eyes. Jon cleared his throat but said nothing. 

“I haven’t bathed in weeks and I’d hate for my uncle to see me like this.”

Jon scoffed. “I doubt he’ll care if you smell.”

“ _I smell?_ ” Sansa asked, horrified. He still had his back to her, but Jon could imagine the indignant expression on her face. He’d seen it a million times by now. 

_Yes,_ he thought. _You smell like roses and sweat and that sweet spot between your thighs and it is driving me mad._

“I offered for you to bathe quite often in the last weeks.”

She let out a huff of frustration behind him. “I didn’t even know your name then. I hardly trusted you enough to allow myself to be _naked_ near you.”

Jon pursed his lips to keep from smiling suddenly. “But you trust me now?”

Sansa was quiet for a beat. “Well, now I know your name.”

He turned then, eyebrows raised, to find her leaning back against Ghost who curled his hulking body around her slender form. “And that is all it takes to trust?”

She shook her head. “No, but it helps. And I know that you mean to take me home – not to whatever horrors lie beyond the Wall.” When his incredulous expression didn’t change, Sansa rolled her eyes. “I just want to bathe, okay? I’m sick of feeling so dirty. I’ve never been so dirty in my life.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Sansa slumped back against Ghost, resting her head on his back, and Jon did his best to ignore the warmth that spread through his body. The girl suddenly looked so dejected and sad that it felt like a rock had been dropped on his chest. Did a bath really mean that much to her? He sighed. “This is only an autumn storm – cold enough for snow but not enough to kill, at least not if you are quick about it.”

She lifted her head. “It’s freezing,” Sansa frowned. 

“I’ve bathed in colder weather, it’s possible but you won’t like it.”

“How?”

Turning his body fully back towards her now, Jon shifted his gaze to their fire and poked at it with a long stick. “Keep your cloak and clothes on just until you reach the water, bathe as quickly as possible – which shouldn’t be a problem because it will be so cold you’ll wish you were dead – then immediately put your dry clothes back on to return-”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“- and when you return disrobe again, lay close to the fire with your cloak thrown over you, and Ghost at your back.”

Her face paled. “Why in the Light of the Seven would I _disrobe_? That would only make me _colder_.” There was a pretty flush creeping up her skin and Jon stopped trying to push away visions of her naked body pressed against his wolf. 

“Body heat spreads quicker without clothes – Ghost will warm you better than that dress ever could. Besides, the cloth will be wet from your hair and in these temperatures that could kill you.”

“ _I can’t be naked before you_.”

Jon shrugged, pretending the idea didn’t affect him as much as it did. “I told you that you wouldn’t like it. Truly, the best thing to do would be for you and I _and_ Ghost to huddle together beneath both our cloaks, but I very much doubt that would be more appealing to you.” 

Sansa’s pretty mouth had gone slack in shock. Deep in his heart, Jon knew he probably shouldn’t have said what he did, but gods be damned, he was sick and tired of being stuck in this tiny space with Sansa Stark. If he couldn’t physically get away from her, the next best thing was to make her leave him alone – to make her go back to that icy silence of their first week alone together. It worked – for nearly an hour they sat in silence, Jon staring glumly out at the snow and ignoring the swirl of guilt and want and shame in his belly, Sansa carding her soft fingers through Ghost’s fur and sneaking glances Jon could feel boring holes into the back of his neck. When she finally spoke again, Jon contemplated drowning himself in the frigid creek.

“I’ve never been kissed.”

His shoulders stiffened. His heart started pounding. _Where_ was this going?

“When I was first betrothed to Joffrey it worried me, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be pleasing to him. I told my mother that, and she said that it was a good thing. Joffrey would value my maidenly ignorance and be pleased to know his were the first lips to ever touch mine. I can only imagine what my mother would say about me laying _naked_ in the presence of another man. _Of a wilding_.”

When he spoke, the words were quiet and gruff, they felt thick in his throat. “You said they’d all assume you lost your virtue anyways. If you want to bathe, bathe. I told you I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t.”

“Will you look?”

“No. You’ll be under a cloak anyways.” 

_But you’ll press against Ghost,_ he thought. _I’ll feel the warmth of you; I’ll smell your skin; I’ll hear the rhythm of your heart and gods forbid I fall asleep and can’t stop myself from seeing through his eyes – truly feeling through his skin._

“Will you… will you come with me? You can’t look! But I’m afraid I’ll freeze or I’ll slip or-”

Jon tried to bite back a growl. “Why couldn’t you have just bathed when the weather was more suitable,” he snarled, whipping around to look at her. 

The girl’s eyes widened in shock, then lowered in shame. “I didn’t… I was afraid, then then I just didn’t care. I wanted to die, I planned to die, so what did it matter if I was dirty?” There were tears in her eyes now, and she kept her gaze stubbornly on her hands. 

Guilt tightened around his heart. He remembered the way she’d looked at the Wall that first time she saw it. The way her voice had sounded when she told him she’d planned to let herself fall from it. He sighed. Standing, Jon crossed the small space and reached out his hand to her. “Come on.”

Those big, blue irises turned up to meet his gaze. “You must think I’m very silly.”

Jon met her stare earnestly, his face serious and measured. “I think you are a great many things, Sansa Stark, but silly is not one of them.

* 

The curses that escaped Sansa’s mouth when she stripped naked in the snow would have put a blush on Jon’s cheeks if they hadn’t already been blazing a deeper crimson than her hair due to the mere knowledge she was naked behind him. Biting his lip, Jon stared resolutely ahead desperately trying to conjure an image – any image – other than how her soft, pale skin would look in the snow. How her hair would only stand out more and how the cold would make her nipples… 

No. 

No. No. No. 

Another string of curses accompanied a rather loud splash. Then a shriek. Then, “It’s _cold_.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle. “I told you. Be quick.”

Quick she was. Barely a minute later he heard another splash and another bout of curses and then the crunch of snow as she desperately tried to clothe herself once more. “It’s _so_ cold.”

Then she was clutching his arm and Jon turned to find her wide, blue eyes staring at him as she shivered violently; her damp hair freezing in the cold air. It was Jon’s turn to curse then. He never should have let her even attempt this. A cold bath was nothing to his people, but Sansa was a kneeler. She was more delicate. She’d spent her whole life beside a hearth. Jon shrugged out of his own cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Come on.”

Once they were back in their little hollow, Jon threw a couple more logs on the fire and turned again so she could disrobe. 

“O-o-okay,” she muttered, teeth chattering. 

Jon turned back around to see the Stark girl shaking beneath his and her cloaks. “You okay?”

She nodded, but Jon wasn’t convinced. “Ghost,” he barked, gesturing towards where Sansa lay shivering beside the fire. The direwolf rose from where he’d been lounging and dropped down to Sansa’s side. The girl sighed. 

“T-t-that h-h-helps.”

After five minutes she was still shivering and starting to look at little blue. Jon had stoked the fire to a roar; only stopping adding wood when he grew concerned it would make their shelter too smokey. “Fuck,” he cursed, gazing back at the shaking girl. “I never should have let you do that. This was such a stupid idea.”

“N-n-no,” Sansa murmured. She was flush against Ghost now and Jon could feel the tug of her fingers in his fur. “It w-w-wasn’t a b-b-bad-“ her thought was cut abruptly short by a sneeze. 

“Fuck,” Jon repeated. “Scoot over.”

“W-w-what?”

He began removing layers until he stood before the shivering girl in only his trousers and undershirt. “Scoot over, I’m laying down too.”

The way her face instantly turned the shade of her hair would have been funny in any other situation. Currently, however, Jon was far too concerned that he’d just inadvertently killed Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter. 

“You aren’t warming up enough. We need to get you warm. Scoot.” Jon watched the hesitation in her eyes – watched the internal debate she must be having. “ _Please_ , Sansa,” he finally added when she didn’t move. “I won’t forgive myself if you freeze.” 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed herself against Ghost and allowed Jon the room he needed. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to any god that would listen when he lifted their cloaks to slip underneath and saw she had kept her shift on. Once under the furs, Jon wasted little time in tugging her towards him until her body was pressed as tightly against his chest as it had been pressed against Ghost moments before.

For a long while they lay in silence as Sansa shivered against him. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Her breathe was warm against his throat, making him swallow. 

Jon’s reply was murmured against her wet hair. “You just did.”

He could feel her smile against his skin. The sensation sent a warm chill down his back. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

She was silent for a beat. “I'm six and ten.” The girl pressed her face closer to his skin. “Why are you helping me, Jon?”

His heart stuttered. “I – I don’t know.”

A huff of warm breath graced his neck. “You do know. Tell me.”

Without thinking, he bunched the fabric of her shift in his hands where they rested against the warm slope of her back. “You shouldn’t have been stolen in the first place.” It wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the true answer to her question. Somethings, though, were better unsaid. 

“Is that not why you came to Winterfell?”

“No,” Jon told her. “We came to gather information – to steal weapons and food. To figure out where the Wall was weakest for an assault. At least I thought we did. Now I think Mance had it in his mind to steal you all along.”

“But you didn’t?”

“I didn’t.”

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want you to die.” His hands tightened in the fabric. “Not for me; not for this. I hated you so much at first – and I’m still _angry_ – but I don’t want you to _die_.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that, so he remained silent and prayed she couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart beneath her skin. 

“Do you have a family? A wife? Children?”

“No,” he breathed out. “I have no one. I won’t be missed.” He thought of Ygritte – dead and cold. Of Val – happily awaiting the arrival of Jarl’s child. He’d be labeled a coward or a traitor, even in death. All for the sake of this Stark girl. 

Suddenly, Sansa was both pushing away and pulling him closer – angling them so that her pretty face loomed before his own, those _eyes_ wide and angry and brilliant. Unbidden, his eyes flicked to her lips. “ _Don’t say that_ ,” she hissed. 

“It’s true.”

“ _It’s not._ ”

“Who will miss me? I have no family and I’ll be seen as a craven or traitor.”

“Ghost will,” she told him, then, lowering her eyes and biting her lip, “I will.”

Jon could have sworn his heart stopped altogether. “You won’t,” he breathed out. “You’ll return home and you’ll forget about me – you’re just confused because we been alone together for so long. Don’t muddy my guilt with kindness, girl. I stole you, to the eyes of the world I dishonored you – look at us now! What would your father say if he knew you lay here pressed against me in only your shift with a _direwolf_ at your back. You will _not_ miss me and you will _not_ mourn my death.”

He felt ill and angry and so very bitter as he watched tears slip down her cheeks. “You’re wrong,” Sansa muttered before she turned her back to him and pressed her cheeks against Ghost. Jon lay still, resentment pumping through his veins, until a soft hand wrapped around his arm and tugged until his traitorous body curled around her own. 

“I’m cold,” she muttered, voice shaky with chill or tears, he couldn’t tell. “I’m so, so cold.”

* 

When he woke, Jon was warmer than he thought he’d ever been in his life. In the night, Sansa must have turned back into his chest – her fingers were curled tightly in the rough wool of his undershirt and her face pressed into the hollow of his throat. Her warm thigh had slipped between his legs and her chest was flush against his own, her soft breasts pressing firmly against him. Still half asleep and not fully cognizant of his own actions, Jon bent his chin and pressed a firm kiss to the crown of her head.

He should be more scared, he figured. At most he had a week to live. Maybe a little more if Lord Stark wasn’t at Castle Black with his brother. 

Somehow, though, in that moment, dying for Sansa Stark didn’t seem like so great a sacrifice – not if it meant he had this still morning surrounded by her warmth and her scent and the heat of her gentle breath against his skin. 

Slowly, dreamily, he wrapped his arms tighter around Sansa’s body as if he could somehow mold her closer to his flesh as Jon fell back into sleep. 

She murmured something, releasing a soft sigh and nuzzling her nose against the sensitive skin of his neck. Jon smiled and pretended for a moment that they were beneath his furs in his tent, back on the right side of the Wall, and that she’d let him steal her for his spearwife. 

The next time he woke Sansa was gone. Awake and dressed, she sat across the fire from him, his cloak draped over her shoulders as he still lay under hers, watching him. When she saw him stir, she looked away quickly. “You slept late,” Sansa murmured. 

“You should have woken me.” He rose and began to tug his boots and overclothes back on. Ghost was gone as well, but the faint scent of blood let Jon know he was only hunting. 

Sansa shrugged. “You looked peaceful.” Turning away, she nodded towards the entrance of their hollow. “The snow has stopped. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Good,” Jon grumbled, a sinking feeling settling into his gut. “We’ll press on then.”

“How far?”

“Three days, at most. Likely less now that we only have one horse. Your mare was slow.”

He regretted the words when he saw her face fall. 

“You’ll be home before you know it,” he told her gently, but the girl just clenched her jaw tighter. 

“And you’ll be dead by my father’s hand.” In an instant, she’d stood and turned for the exit. “Let’s go.”

* 

In the end, Jon knew he should have seen the men coming. He should have been more alert; should have slipped into Ghost’s skin and made the wolf return; should have not let himself get so distracted by the press of Sansa’s body against him on their shared horse. 

But truly, he thought as the Stark men emerged from the trees, what did it matter? He was a dead man anyway. 

“Robb?” Sansa gasped, her hands clutching tightly at Jon’s wrists where he held the reins. Jon recognized the auburn-haired man as well – he’d seen him at Winterfell a few times during prior raids south of the Wall. Even if he hadn’t though, his relation to Sansa was unmistakable – they shared the same blood-red hair, the same big blue eyes, the same dusting of freckles. Jon was fairly certain he could take the Stark heir in a fight. The other man was bulkier than him, but Jon was taller and knew he was swifter and had more experience. Yes, it would be an easy fight made only moderately more difficult with the Stark heir’s five men. 

But he’d taken enough from Sansa. He wouldn’t take her brother too. 

Besides, he was a dead man already. 

Sansa slipped from the horse and into her brother’s arms, only to be tugged away by one of her brother’s men as Robb advanced and Jon dismounted, drawing Longclaw from his back. 

“Wait!” Sansa called; her voice edged in panic as the man holding her tightened his grip. “Robb, no!”

Then their blades met and the dance began and he did his best to drown out her cries. Jon tested her brother for a little while – meeting his blows and pressing his own attacks. The hard, ferocious glare in the Stark’s eyes made the guilt threading through his body so much worse. He knew Sansa was right – knew this man and the others around them likely thought Jon had his way with her. 

A sudden anger filled him then. These green boys had no idea what the true threat north of the Wall was – they had no idea what Jon had seen and done – no idea _who_ he was and _how_ he’d treated Sansa. He pressed the Stark heir harder then, a thrill of satisfaction rushing through him as the boy’s eyes widened. 

“Jon – don’t!” Sansa shrieked and in an instant Jon’s anger vanished like snow on a warm spring day. Swallowing his pride, Jon let himself miss a parry, hissing at the bite of Robb Stark’s blade in his leg. Faintly, he heard Sansa shout as he dropped to his knees and let Longclaw slip into the snow. Steeling himself, Jon prepared for the kiss of death with a strangely hollow ache in lieu of any fear or regret. He only hoped that Ghost would be okay, wherever that damned wolf was now. He hoped Sansa was wrong and that she would find a husband – not this Joffrey but someone she did want. She deserved love. And babes. Lots of babes with blue eyes and red hair and pale freckles.

“No,” Sansa screamed, suddenly ripping free of her captor’s grip and throwing her body in front of Jon’s so quickly her brother barely had the time to move his blade out of the way of her flesh. “Don’t Robb, please,” the girl sobbed. “He saved my life – He stole me back from the King-Beyond-the-Wall to take me to Uncle Ben. He’s taking me to Castle Black! He saved me, Robb. You can’t kill him – please, you can’t kill him!”

Jon frowned at the lie. Though, truly, was it a lie? Sure, he hadn’t meant to steal her from Mance, but in the end, that was what he’d done. 

“Please,” Sansa was still begging, her hands frantically reaching behind her and clasping onto the leather straps of Jon’s cloak. “For the love you bear me, don’t kill him!”

Her brother glared down at him. “Is that true, wildling?” he spit out. “You helped her?”

Unable to speak, Jon simply nodded. The world was going a little fuzzy at the edges now. He could feel wet heat on his leg; he could see the snow turning red. White on red, red on white. Just like Sansa. Just like Ghost. 

Robb turned his hard gaze back to his weeping sister. “Did that bastard touch you, Sansa? Did he dishonor you?”

“No,” she sobbed. “No, Robb, please! I swear it!” 

After a long moment, the heir to Winterfell slumped back and sighed heavily. “Jory, bind him. And tie something around that damned leg. My father will want him alive.” Robb spit into the snow and glared at Jon. “Make no mistake, wildling, my father will dispense whatever justice he sees fit.” Then he reached down and grabbed his sister by the arm, tugging her up and away from where Jon lay bleeding in the snow. 

Robb Stark threw his sword down and tugged a near-hysterical Sansa into his arms fiercely. “Gods, little sister,” he murmured as the man who had been holding Sansa back began to bind Jon. “We’ve been so afraid.”

The last thing Jon saw before he passed out was those blue, blue eyes watching him, filled with tears and fear and concern. He remembered the warmth of her that morning; the feel of her pressed to him; the melody of her laugh and the sweet smell of her. 

Yes, if Sansa Stark did end up being the end of him, Jon couldn't bring himself to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (spoiler.... he doesn't die... they end up getting married and having babies years later when the wars are done)
> 
> I may possibly be persuaded to write a part two to this because I have some definite headcanons and a post-fic plot mapped out. BUT I am not allowing myself to touch that until I have finished Beasts of Seasons, Brave, Gentle, and Strong, and at least updated In the Eye We'll Stay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is I. Boo boo the fool.

It was the coldest he’d ever been. So cold, that in his waking moments Jon was sure he had died. It didn’t help he was in pitch black darkness – no light to orient him or assure him that he was in fact alive. 

With a groan, he pressed a shaking hand to his leg and was rewarded with a surge of pain. Surely, that meant he was not dead? 

Hours passed in the darkness. Jon sat in the silence, mind churning over the past moon as he shook from the cold. A tight fear gripped him as he thought about Sansa. He recalled her brother arriving, and their fight. He knew that she was safe – but somehow, he still feared. What if he had imagined that? What if it hadn’t truly been her brother? The thought of Sansa – sweet, fierce, beautiful Sansa Stark – stuck in the frigid dark made something mean curl inside his heart. 

After what may have been minutes or days or hours, the darkness of Jon’s world was blinded by light. His only warning was the metal jingle of a key and the scrape of wood on ice, and suddenly the orange glow of a touch illuminated his prison. _An ice cell,_ he realized, blinking away his blindness. They’d placed him in an ice cell. He was at the Wall after all. He was _in_ the Wall. 

“Up,” a gruff voice instructed him, roughly dragging him to his feet. To his captor’s displeasure, Jon collapsed the moment he stood. Pain shot through his body at the pressure on his leg. 

“Grenn,” the gruff voice barked. “Get your ass in here! The fucker can’t stand.”

Suddenly arms were wrapping around him, dragging him into more light, but all Jon could focus on was the warmth of the men’s bodies. He could cry the warmth was so welcome. Let them kill him. Let the Starks’ justice fall. So long as he could be warm again if only for a moment. 

_Sansa was warm._

*

Two of the men he recognized immediately. 

He’d seen Lord Stark on countless raids – every time he’d snuck into Winterfell just for the thrill of it or to steal some little trinket to boast about back north. This was the first time, however, that Jon was struck by what Sansa had mentioned. It was true that the Lord of Winterfell had the same eyes as he did. The same dark brown hair. They were even of a height.

Jon also recognized the old man, though it was a shock to see the fucker alive and breathing. The last time Jon had seen the old crow, he’d been bleeding out in the snow as Jon made off with his kneeler sword. At fifteen, the victory had seemed like Jon’s crowning achievement – after all, it was showing off the sword and bragging about slaying the old crow that made Ygritte finally grab him by the hand and drag him into her tent. In the years since, however, he’d reflected on the fight with more than a little remorse. The crow had only been an old man. Who boasted about killing old men? 

The third man was a stranger – but judging by his long face, grey eyes, and greying dark brown hair, he was Sansa’s uncle. Lord Stark’s brother. The First Ranger. 

Jon slumped to his knees once his jailers released him. It was purely out of exhaustion and the shock of pain in his leg, but he couldn’t help the pang of anger that shot through him at the fact he was kneeling to these men. Yes, he may be about to die – but Jon had no intention of kneeling. He was still of the free folk. He was no southern kneeler.

“By the gods, the bastard looks like a Stark,” the old man chuckled after a moment of tense silence. 

“He’s no Stark,” Sansa’s uncle spit out. “No Stark would steal a maid from her bed.”

Lord Stark held up a hand to silence his brother. His face was stormy; his eyes clouded in anger and rimmed in exhaustion. “What’s your name, boy?”

Jon clenched his jaw and remained silent. He stared at Lord Stark defiantly. He’d die with dignity at least. He’d gotten Sansa safely to her family again, now he could die on his own terms. 

The First Ranger took a step towards him, thunder in his glare. “Lord Stark asked you your name. You took his daughter. Seems to me the least you could do is-”

“His name is Jon.” All four men turned their eyes to the doorway where the Stark heir was removing his cloak. Snow was melting in his crimson hair, and Jon bit the inside of his cheek as the sight conjured images of Sansa in his mind. “Sansa told me all about him,” Robb Stark continued. “His name is Jon, he’s twenty. The King-Beyond-The-Wall found him as a babe. She claims he helped her.” Robb dropped a long object wrapped in cloth on the table. “Here, this is his sword. It’s a beauty. Valyrian steel.” He turned his gaze to Jon. “We should ask the bastard where he got it.”

The old man was on his feet in an instant. “Gods be damned, I knew I recognized the boy.” He moved to the table, throwing the cloth off Longclaw. There was fire in his eyes when he turned to Jon. “You’re the son of a bitch that left me for dead.” He turned back to the Starks. “For five long years I’ve been searching for this whoreson! Cornered me on a ranging – attacked me, left me for dead, and stole House Mormont’s ancestral blade. Its only thanks to Maester Aemon’s handiwork I’m here today.”

“You make a habit of taking things that don’t belong to you, it seems,” Robb Stark remarked, looking down his nose at Jon. 

The words were out of Jon’s mouth before he could stop them. “Only if they’re pretty.” 

The heir lunged at Jon, landing a solid punch to his jaw before Sansa’s uncle grabbed him and dragged him away. 

“Enough!” Lord Stark bellowed. “Robb, control yourself or leave!”

The Stark heir glared at Jon before shrugging off his uncle and dropping into an empty chair. 

Lord Stark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now, boy, we have guards who report seeing a wildling stealing away with my daughter. My son found you with her just west of here. All evidence seems to point to you taking her from her bed in the night and making for the lands north of the Wall.” The lord’s jaw tightened as he squared his shoulders. “The only reason you aren’t already dead is because she insists you helped her. I feel honor-bound to allow you to make your case to me before I decide whether or not to swing the sword.”

Jon’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the solemn faces; the barely contained anger. 

“But know,” Lord Stark continued. “That it is taking every ounce of my self-control to not take that stolen blade and remove your head from your shoulders. She’s a girl of six and ten. A maid. A tender, delicate little thing. I don’t care if you helped her if you touched a single hair on her head, do you understand me? I have spent the last three weeks-”

“I didn’t touch her,” Jon interrupted. “Not like that.” _And she's stronger than you think,_ he wanted to add. 

Robb Stark scoffed. 

“Why did you take her, then?” Sansa’s uncle asked. “I’ve spent my life hunting down wildlings like you. I know what you bastards do to the women you take.”

Jon grit his teeth. “ _I didn’t touch her._ None of us did. And I’ll have you know that I’ve never taken a woman on a raid before – even if I had I would never-”

“Us,” Lord Stark interrupted, leaning forward. “You said us. There were more of you?”

“Sansa claimed there were at least five,” Robb said before Jon could open his mouth. 

“Maybe you should talk to Sansa, not me. It seems she’s told the whole story.”

The First Ranger pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against, rising to his full height. “Keep that girl’s name out of your mouth! You have no right to speak it!”

“Your life hangs in the balance, boy,” the old crow added, his voice hard. “Show Lord Stark the respect he deserves.”

Jon’s fists curled in anger, but he held back another snarky remark dancing on his tongue. “There were five of us. A raiding party. The plan was never to take Sa- your daughter.”

“Why were you in Winterfell?”

“Supplies. Weapons.” Jon shrugged. “The usual.”

“ _Usual?_ ” 

Jon turned to the Stark heir, smirking. “I’ve been in your keep many times, kneeler. I’ve seen you training in the yard. That’s how I knew I could beat you. You’re lucky I didn’t feel like spilling Stark blood.”

“I beat you! I’m the reason you can’t stand, you cu-”

“Enough!” 

Robb and Jon turned back to Lord Stark. The man’s face was red with anger now. 

“Who took my daughter? If it wasn’t you, then who? Who led the raid?”

Jon bit the inside of his cheek. He was a dead man anyway, right? Why should he betray Mance to these kneelers? He’d already caused enough damage by taking the Sansa to her family instead of to his people. If he took the fall now, maybe it would stop the Starks from seeking retribution against his people. 

“Lord Stark asked you a question, boy,” the old crow barked. 

Jon looked at the floor. “I did. It was my idea.”

“Bollocks.”

“Robb!”

“That’s not what Sansa told me! She insisted it was Mance Rayder himself, father! If you would go and talk to her about it instead of-”

“Robb, I will ask you to leave if you do not hold your tongue!”

The heir huffed in frustration and slumped back into his chair. It was a move so reminiscent of Sansa that it made Jon’s chest ache. Stark turned back to Jon then, his jaw set in frustration and anger. 

“Your silence won’t protect your people, Jon. My brother is already planning the largest ranging in memory to let your _king_ know what happens when his people take such liberties. To remind your people why the Starks have held the north for 8,000 years. Any lies now will only serve to make your death more shameful.”

Jon’s nails dug into his palms. “It was Mance,” he spat after a long moment. “He came back to camp with her on the last night. None of us knew he was planning it. He’s always loved the tale of Bael the Bard. We bring better prizes back each time we go south. What better prize is there than your eldest daughter?” 

Lord Stark’s face darkened. “Where I come from, stealing a girl of six and ten from her home and family is no great feat. It’s cowardice. Cowardice and cruelty, and it leads only to sorrow and pain for all involved.”

Sansa’s uncle looked away then, his face suddenly very sad as if a painful memory had crossed his mind. 

“I never said I agreed with Mance,” Jon murmured, suddenly feeling very ashamed. For a long moment, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Lord Stark’s brother and the ashen look on his face. 

Lord Stark sighed. “If it was Mance Rayder’s doing and his idea, how did you come to be the one caught with my daughter?”

“We split up. We knew you were hard on our trail. Mance and the others split into pairs and went different directions, as did San – your daughter – and I. The plan was to meet back up north of the Wall.”

“Why did Mance give her to you? Why didn’t he take her with him?”

Jon frowned. “I don’t know. I was just given orders.” He blushed then. “Mance thought she might be easier with me. I’m younger than the others and… I don’t know. He just thought it was best. I know the lands south of the Wall best.”

Robb scoffed again, as did the old crow. “If you know the lands south of the Wall best,” the old man said, “then the lot of you must be dumber than we think. You were caught a day’s ride from Castle Black – the seat of the Night’s Watch.”

Anger welled in Jon. “By design!” he bit out. “I’m not an idiot – I know these lands and I know ways through and over the Wall that you and your men don’t even know about, crow! I came this way because I meant to return Sansa to her uncle. She said he would be here, and that he held sway. It was a better bet than trying to take her back the way we came, which would have been weeks longer in the autumn snows.”

The room was silent for a moment. “That’s what Sansa said too,” Robb Stark finally said. “Not the bit about snow – but that he was taking her here to Uncle Benjen. She said she’d told him he could leave her a day’s ride away so he could escape, but he insisted on taking her all the way.”

“Escape?” Stark’s brother – Benjen – asked. “She meant to let him escape?”

“Have _none_ of you talked to her?” Jon asked, his frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over. “I’ve been in that fucking ice cell for days, and in all that time none of you kneelers have so much as-”

“Watch yourself, boy!” the old crow warned. 

Robb Stark was suddenly on his feet. “He’s right, father! I mean – he’s a son of a bitch but he’s right. You’ve barely been to see Sansa. You should hear the story from her before-”

“Don’t question your father, pup,” Benjen Stark interrupted. “Not here and not now. You should-”

“Benjen,” Lord Stark sighed, holding up a hand. Suddenly, the man looked utterly drained. Shame curled in Jon as he thought about the fear and stress he’d put the lord through. “The boy is right.” He cradled his head in his hands. “I’ve been too ashamed to see her – to speak with her. That she was stolen under my very nose…” he sighed and looked away. “I failed her as a father. As a lord. I failed her just as I failed my sister years ago.” 

“Eddard,” Benjen Stark murmured. “You did all you could. Then and now.”

Jon felt tiny then. He felt like utter filth. He looked at the floor, his throat beginning to burn as he had the sudden urge to cry. He had no idea what happened to Lord Stark’s sister – but his sympathy and guilt for what he’d put Sansa’s father through suddenly weighed on him like a rock. “I treated her well, Lord Stark,” he said quietly, eyes still on the floor. “I was so angry when Mance showed up with her. I wanted to take her home then. It wasn’t right. She was crying and so scared, and she didn’t even have proper boots.” He sighed, and finally dragged his gaze up to meet that of Sansa’s father. “I swear to you by the old gods that I didn’t harm her. I didn’t touch her. I was respectful and I made sure she was well treated. I admit I was going to take her north of the Wall on Mance’s orders, but then we got to the Wall and I just… I just couldn’t do it. She’d told me about your brother, so I changed course for Castle Black. I’m sorry for what we put you and your family through. I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. She told me about it – she told me that she’s betrothed to your prince and that the marriage will likely fall through; that everyone will think she’s been dishonored. But I swear to you, she was treated well. I would never harm her. _Never_.”

The anger had melted from Lord Stark’s eyes. It was replaced with a profound sadness. He sighed and slumped back in his chair. A heavy silence fell over the room. 

“I – I believe him, father.”

Lord Stark turned to his son; an eyebrow raised in question. 

Robb Stark sat up a little straighter. “Sansa told me. She told me what he did for her. That he didn’t hurt her; he kept her safe and made sure she was well fed and kept warm. She told me that he risked the wellbeing of his people to bring her home. That he knew he would be killed but insisted on doing it anyway. At first, I thought it was more of her romantic nonsense – you know how she loves those silly, dramatic ballads. But… but she is insistent.”

Lord Stark frowned and turned back to Jon. “How are you risking your people?”

“He knows we’ll put the fuckers to the sword,” Benjen Stark muttered darkly. 

Jon shook his head. He knew it was a long shot, but maybe there was a small chance they’d believe him? The Night’s Watch had to have seen the wights as well – right? Robb Stark had believed him about Sansa, maybe he’d believe him about the threat beyond the Wall as well. 

“There was another reason Mance stole San – your daughter. Another reason I needed to bring her north of the Wall. We had hoped to use her as a bargaining chip.”

“For what?”

Jon turned to the old crow then. “I assume you’re the Lord Commander?” The old man frowned but nodded. Jon then turned to Benjen Stark. “And you’re First Ranger?” The man nodded as well. “Then surely the two of you have had strange reports from your men. The dead walking? Dead things in the woods? In the water?” 

The men exchanged an uncomfortable look. 

“What’s this about Ben? Mormont?”

Benjen Stark nodded at the Lord Commander. The old crow sighed. “Lord Stark, I didn’t think to bother you with it, not until we knew more. It seemed silly and childish to write to Winterfell with reports of-”

“ _Childish?_ ” Jon interrupted, outraged. “Our children are _dying_ , crow. Dying and then being denied even the dignity of a quiet death. They rise. Entire villages are being killed in a night, then rising with the moon. The Others are back, Lord Stark. They are back and they are coming. My people are being hunted down like animals.”

“ _The Others?_ ”

The old crow sighed. “My lord-”

“Mance hoped to use your daughter as a bargaining chip to come south. We’d return her if you let our people settle in the lands south of the Wall.”

Benjen Stark scoffed as Lord Stark’s frown deepened. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

Jon nodded. “I figured. But it was a shot. It was more than accepting death.”

“I thought the Others were just a tale,” Robb Stark chimed in. “Old Nan said-”

“They’re no tale. I’ve seen them.”

Lord Stark’s eyes sharpened. “With your own eyes?”

Jon nodded. “Wights and Others. They come in the night. It gets so cold you can barely breathe, then they start to pick off the weakest ones. They’re building their army. They’re waiting for winter. They’re coming.”

Lord Stark exchanged a look with Lord Commander Mormont. “How serious is this, Jeor? Should we be concerned?”

The old crow shrugged. “We’ve had some reports. Some of Benjen’s rangers have gone missing. Nothing either of us have seen with our own eyes.”

Rage flowed through Jon then. What did these kneelers know? They kept warm and safe in their bloody keeps while his people braved the north and the dangers that came with it. How dare they pass off this threat as mere rumors? He tried to stand, but his leg gave way almost immediately. “Keep down, boy,” Benjen Stark muttered, watching Jon crumple to the floor in pain. 

“The Others are real! What do you know of winter? What do any of you actually know? You huddle here behind your Wall like the cravens you are while our people are picked off like-” 

“Quiet!”

“It must be nice to stay warm and safe near your mother’s breasts as the real northerners face-“

“I said quiet!” Lord Stark bellowed. Jon sank further to the ground, seething in anger and pain and resentment. “Robb, take him back to his cell. Your uncle, the Lord Commander, and I need to speak.”

“But Father, I’d like to-”

“Take him,” Uncle Benjen cut in. 

Robb Stark sighed but dutifully stood. “Back to the ice cell?” 

The old crow nodded, but Lord Stark shook his head. “No, take him to a proper cell. The boy’s been in the ice long enough. This may be his last day, we can show him that small mercy.” 

Jon bit the retort waiting on his lips and chose instead to do nothing to help the Stark heir as the redhead tried to pull Jon to his feet. 

* 

The Stark heir was shorter than him.

Not by much, but by enough that Jon noticed it. Yes, height was a small, stupid, petty thing – but all the same. The Stark heir was shorter than him. At this point, Jon would take his victories where he could get them. 

Much of the trek to the proper cell down beside the cellars was spent in silence, broken only by the grunts of Sansa’s brother as he dragged Jon’s near deadweight along. Yes, Jon could have done more to help, but again – victories where he could get them. 

It wasn’t until they came to the stairs to the cellar that Robb Stark pushed Jon against a cold, stone wall and rested his own back against the opposite one. That was the moment Jon realized he was taller. It was also the moment Jon realized the heir had the same color eyes as Sansa. 

She was here. He knew it. If only he could see her once last time. If only he could-

“You’re a son of a bitch you know that?”

Jon raised his eyes from the floor, dragging a lazy, unimpressed gaze across the other man’s features. 

“Might be. Never knew my mother.”

Robb Stark scoffed and rested the back of his head against the wall. His breath was coming fast from exertion. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Jon used the opportunity to give the heir a good look. He was plainly tired – dark shadows under his eyes and days old stubble on his face. Odd that the boy clearly stayed cleanshaven rather than growing his beard like a man. His clothing was fine. As fine as Sansa’s. He had freckles like her too. And his hair – his hair was the color of blood as well. 

“You look like her. Like your sister. Not at all like your father.”

Robb Stark cracked an eye open, frowning. “Don’t talk about her. Just because I said I believe you doesn’t mean I like you. At all. I won’t blink if my father decides to cut off your head.”

Jon shrugged and looked away, wiping at his nose. It was so bleeding cold here. Colder even than where he came from. It was this damn Wall. Men had no business living near the cursed thing. 

“You’ve really been in Winterfell before?”

Jon nodded without looking at the heir. “Aye. Five, six times.”

“How do you get past the Wall?”

He shrugged again. “Climb.”

A moment later the Stark was grabbing his arm again and dragging Jon down the stairs to his new cell. This one at least wasn’t made of ice, but it did stink worse than mammoth shit. There was some suspicious slime in the corner and a festering pile of rotted out hay. “I’d almost prefer the ice,” Jon murmured. 

Robb Stark laughed then – a hearty, warm laugh that almost made Jon want to smile. “Well, look on the bright side. You probably won’t be here long.”

Strangely, Jon smiled at that. He raised a hand to rub at his throat. The movement made the rope binding his hands chafe a little. The Stark turned to leave, but at the last moment hesitated. He looked at the ground a minute, tapping the key to the cell in his hand. “Is it true? What you said about the Others?”

Jon nodded. “Aye. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen the aftermath of them. They’re coming.”

Robb Stark met his eye then. “I was taught they were a myth. Just a story to scare children.”

“That isn’t what I was taught.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then, suddenly, the heir broke into a smile. “You really are a son of a bitch. I can see why my sister likes you. Even if you are an ass.”

Jon’s eyes dropped back to the rancid hay. He tried to ignore the bubbling warmth in his chest at the admission that Sansa _liked_ him. “I am sorry, you know? I’m sorry about what happened. That we took her. That she… that she had to go through that. That you did. You and your family.”

The other man sighed and leaned against the wall. “The worst month of my life. Thanks to you.” He kicked the wall with his heel. “But she’s safe now. She’s home. It could’ve been worse. She could have ended up like my aunt. I’m not going to thank you or forgive you – because I still think you are a bastard. But I’ll acknowledge that you kept her alive and brought her home at least. That you didn’t hurt her.”

Jon’s gaze had snapped back to the heir as soon as his aunt was mentioned. He remembered the look on Lord Stark’s brother’s face when the lord had mentioned his sister. “Your aunt. Your father mentioned her. Was she stolen by free folk too?”

Robb Stark picked at his nails. “No.” He sighed again. “No, Aunt Lyanna was stolen by the last king’s son. Rhaegar Targaryen. She was only a girl too. Fifteen or so.”

Jon swallowed thickly and looked away again. His guilt began to wash over him in waves. “What happened to her?”

“She died. Father didn’t get to her in time.”

A heavy silence blanketed the room. Robb Stark kicked himself off the wall. When he spoke again, his voice was gruffer – angrier. “So, you see, bastard, not only did you steal my little sister leaving all of us fearing she was lost forever. Not only did you ruin her reputation. Not only did you terrify her and subject her to your traveling conditions. You also made my father and uncle relive the worst years of their lives. I hope it was all worth it. I hope the cold of Ice tomorrow is worth it.”

Without another word, he slammed the cell closed and left Jon with his guilt. 

* 

The next time the door to his cell opened, it revealed the last person Jon expected to see. 

“Sansa?”

“Oh, Jon!” 

In an instant, the girl had flung herself into his arms. Jon reeled back, slowly warming out of his shock of seeing her. 

“What… what are you doing here?”

Sansa ignored him, pulling away and scanning her eyes around the dim little room, illuminated only by a single, dying torch. “It smells _awful_ in here.”

He was still too stunned to register her words. She’d clearly bathed – properly bathed. Her long, crimson hair was loose, falling in soft waves that seemed to glow in the torchlight. The dress she was wearing was new. Midnight blue with little white flowers. Her white cloak was new too. Then she turned her gaze back to him and away from his pitiful cell and something low and deep swooped in his belly when those blue, blue eyes met his own.

“Sansa,” he breathed. “Sansa, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” She laughed, a little watery. Suddenly Jon noticed the tears in her eyes, how red-rimmed they were. The shadows beneath her eyes. How very pink her nose was. 

He frowned. “You’ve been crying.”

She hit him gently. “Of course I’ve been crying. They’re going to kill you and it’s all my fault.”

“Your fault? _Your fault?_ ” Jon pushed her away, shaking his head. “I’m the one who stole you, Sansa. None of this is _your_ fault.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling her.”

Panic shot through Jon like an arrow then. He peered over Sansa’s shoulder and saw her brother leaning against the door, a scowl on his face. Robb Stark rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t stop crying and begging me to sneak her down here. Refused to eat until I gave him.”

“Wait outside, Robb.”

Her brother’s brows shot up. “Are you insane, Sans? He’s a wildling! The wildling who stole you!”

Sansa grabbed Jon’s hand, a defiant look on her face, and a Jon felt as if a jolt of lightning lit through him. “Don’t be so stupid. If he wanted to hurt me, he wouldn’t have brought me here.”

“Yeah, well now he’s here and about to be executed so maybe he’s feeling a little desperate!” 

Sansa scoffed and turned back to Jon, some retort clearly dancing on her lips, but when their eyes met, the fire in her own died. “Oh, Jon. Jon, I’m so sorry. I tried. I did. I pleaded with Father but he won’t listen to me. He won’t even come to see me. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She began to cry then – heart wrenching sobs that tore out of her throat. Robb Stark took a step from the door, but Jon was faster. Without thinking, he pulled the girl into his arms, tucking her against her chest and closing his eyes; wishing for all the world they were back in that stupid little hollow the storm had forced them into. 

Jon made eye contact with her brother over Sansa’s shoulder. “So, he decided to kill me then?”

Robb pursed his lips, eyes darting disapprovingly to his sobbing sister tucked against Jon. “Sounds like it. Wants to talk to Rayder, but it still sounds like he’s set on execution.” He kicked at the dirt floor. “Can’t say I blame him.”

Jon clenched his jaw but said nothing. He couldn’t say he blamed Eddard Stark either. Gods if anyone so much as breathed near Sansa in a way she didn’t like, Jon would be ready to throw his fist. Tearing his eyes from the Stark heir, Jon tucked his face into Sansa’s shoulder, breathing in her scent. Roses. Roses and that scent that was hers and hers alone. It was fainter than it had been before. Without Ghost here, he was only half himself. 

Ghost. Gods, what would happen to Ghost? He could warg into the wolf in his last moments – escape death that way. But what life would that be for him? What life would it be for Ghost? 

His hands fisted in the fabric of Sansa’s gown as he felt tears building behind his eyes. She was warm – so very, very warm. Warm and soft and sweet and strong and everything and nothing he’d ever dreamed of holding. The kindness and gentleness he’d never known he’d always craved.

“Sans,” Robb Stark sighed. “We have to go. This is risky enough as it is. We can’t stay long.”

Jon felt her fingers tighten around him; felt her face press even closer into the skin of his neck. Steeling himself for the goodbye, Jon pulled away. Sansa’s face was flushed; her eyes red with tears.

“You need to go. It’ll be fine.”

She pursed her lips. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, she dragged her small, soft hands up to his jaw; thumbs brushing his cheeks as she shook her head. “I’ll think of you every day. I promise.”

Jon swallowed, then raised his own hands to brush away her tears. Despite himself; despite his own tears. Despite the sudden fear that had lodged in his heart as his imminent death became so very real, he laughed. A watery, sad, pathetic sort of laugh that was practically dragged from his throat. “Don’t be a fool,” he told her. “You hardly know me. I _stole_ you. Forget about me. Remember what I told you back in that hollow? Forget about me. You have your whole life left. I’m nothing.”

He watched as her jaw tensed; as her brows drew together; as a fire lit in her eyes. “You’re not nothing, Jon. You are kind. Kind, and smart. And brave. And gentle and strong too. You’re a truer man than many knights I know.”

Her brother scoffed. “And how many knights have you actually met, Sansa? How many stole you from Winterfell in the knight and kept you in the wilderness for a moon?”

Sansa ignored him, her eyes shining with tears and some emotion Jon couldn’t quite place. He felt frozen by her gaze though. Felt as if the Wall itself could crumble but he’d be held in place by the weight of her eyes. “I’ll pray for a miracle,” she murmured. “Even though you don’t believe in the Seven.”

Then – to the shock of both Jon and the Stark heir – she kissed him. 

It was gentle. Short. Chaste. Tame. Just a press of lips to startled lips. Soft, warm, full lips. Lips Jon wished he could spend hours getting better acquainted with. Lips that had haunted him since he first set out away from Mance and the rest with the Stark girl. 

Suddenly, she was jerked away and out of reach; her brother dragging her back into the hall as she began to cry again. Robb Stark shot Jon a withering glare that promised of violence, but Jon could hardly see anything other than the soft waves of crimson hair that were pushed around the corner; could hear nothing but her cries and protests as her brother locked the cell and pulled her away. 

Slowly, Jon raised his fingers to his lips and slumped back against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I made some promises about other things that would be finished first, but here’s the thing pals: Writer’s block is a son of a bitch and sometimes there are certain stories you can write and others that just aren’t coming or just aren’t right yet. I figured it was better to give you what I can than to give you nothing until I have something for other fics I’m writing.
> 
> I know this didn't have much jonsa, tbh next chapter won't either (instead we'll have a ranging, mance, and some hard truths). I'm having a bit too much fun with wildling jon and wanted to explore that more. But chapter 4 my friends.... chapter 4. 
> 
> Happy New Year!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert that one spongebob meme* 
> 
> ~Im NoT GOnnA WRitE anOthEr mULtI-cHAptEr jONSa FiC~
> 
> Ugh. Law school starts again in two weeks. And here I am. Chapter count is gone because I have ideas, despite having no time. Ugh. 
> 
> This chapter is long and angsty. I’d apologize, but I kinda get the feeling that is a lot of you guys’ thing.

His death came early. 

Dawn hadn’t broken over the Wall yet when Jon was dragged up the steps of the cellar. He frowned when the crows marching him to his death turned for another of the stone buildings rather than the yard where he assumed the deed would be done. 

“Where are we going?”

One of the crows scoffed – a bitter, angry noise. The other shot his brother a glare. “Lord Stark wants to speak with you.” He spit at Jon’s feet.

Of course. He’d want to draw this out. Make Jon _really_ feel his guilt. Make him confess all he could about the free folk. Fucking kneelers. Couldn’t just give someone a quick, dignified death. Everything had to be so damn complicated. 

At last he was shoved into the same chambers as the day before; left to crumple to the ground again as his wounded leg gave way beneath him. 

“For the gods’ sake – Ben, would you help the boy up and into a chair?”

The First Ranger moved from where he stood behind his brother and dragged Jon into a chair, shoving him roughly against the creaking wood. 

“If you mean to kill me, best get it over with. I’m not going to tell you anything,” Jon spat; his guilt and anger and fear mixing and melding in his chest. 

“You’ll have more respect,” Benjen Stark began, stalking back towards Jon. 

“Enough, Ben.” Lord Stark rose from his own chair then and rounded the desk where he’d been seated. Leaning against the wood, the elder Stark crossed his arms and glared at Jon. He sighed. “I don’t mean to kill you yet.”

Fucking kneelers. 

“You’re going to help me first,” Stark continued. “Then I’ll take you back to Winterfell so you can look my wife in the eye before you die. The woman has been beside herself for a moon. Inconsolable. I want her to see the coward that took her daughter. Then I’ll take your head before the heart tree, as the Starks of old did.”

Jon held his tongue, his guilt finally outweighing his anger and fear once more. 

“You’ll see the Watch’s maester about that leg, then bathe and dress. You smell like that rotting cell. At first light, you, me, my son, my brother, a dozen rangers and two dozen of my men will set out beyond the Wall. You’ll lead me to your so-called king. He and I will have a long talk about this threat you claim exists beyond the Wall and about what I’ll do if he dares cross into my lands again. Then we will return here, then to Winterfell. Understood?”

Jon scoffed and looked at the floor. 

“Something funny?” Stark’s brother asked. 

Jon looked up, meeting Eddard Stark’s eyes. “Your wife won’t have the chance to look me in the eye. Mance will kill me the instant he sees me. Any of the free folk will.” 

Lord Stark raised an eyebrow in question. 

“Either they’ll think I failed and see me as a coward or think I betrayed them in giving your daughter back. They aren’t my people anymore. I’ve lost that privilege. Lost it to bring her here to you.”

The lord looked at him for a long moment, a harsh frown pulling at his lips. Then he shrugged. “Dead there, dead here. Dead is dead. But, if I can bear to treat with the son of whore who actually stole my daughter, he should be able to stomach letting you live long enough to return to Winterfell with me.” Lord Stark stood at his full height then, nodding to one of Jon’s crow guards. The men dragged him to his feet again. “Winter is coming, Jon,” Stark continued as the men pulled Jon from the room. “Winter is coming, and we all must make sacrifices.” 

* 

Within an hour Jon was on a horse on his side of the Wall. He sat sullenly towards the back of the gathered party, glumly frowning as he contemplated what was waiting for him at Mance’s camp. Truth be told, he’d much rather Stark had just killed him that morning. Either way, he was going to die. Dragging it out like this was just torture. 

But maybe that was Stark’s plan. 

“Thought you’d be happier about this.”

Jon looked up from the patch of snow he’d been scowling at. Robb Stark was trotting towards him on a black destrier. It was a beautiful horse. Totally wrong for the terrain they’d be traveling, though. “And why is that, Stark?”

The heir shrugged. “Well, you aren’t dead.”

“Not yet.”

The other man laughed; the sound tinged with bitterness. “No, not yet. My sister’s prayers answered, I suppose.” He shot Jon an angry, suspicious look. “You’re bleeding lucky I didn’t tell my father what I saw. Only reason I didn’t is because it would get her in trouble.” 

Jon scoffed. “Or because you didn’t want to get yourself in trouble for bringing her to the cell. How old are you, Stark?”

“Twenty.”

“And still under your father’s thumb? We’re of an age but it appears only one of us is a man.”

The look on Robb Stark’s face turned thunderous. “Yes, but only one of us would kidnap an innocent girl.”

“Wildling!” 

Jon and Robb both looked towards Lord Stark who was emerging from the cluster of saddled men. 

“Come here, we’re plotting our way. You’re to lead us.” 

There was a grumble amongst the crows, no doubt many of them mistrustful of Jon. For a moment, he contemplated leading them all to where he knew the danger was thickest. But no. No. He was a dead man anyways, and the least he could do to repair the damage he’d done was help Sansa’s father. Keep her brother and uncle and father safe. He kicked his heels and rode to meet his fate. 

* 

It took nearly two weeks for Eddard Stark to speak to him about something other than the mission. And unsurprisingly, that thing was Sansa. 

Jon had spent much of the journey thus far with Robb of all people. Their relationship was prickly to say the least, but for some reason, the Stark insisted on riding near Jon and occasionally they made conversation on topics safely unrelated to Sansa and stealing and executions and the enormous slab of ice that divided their worlds. To Jon’s surprise, he’d come to _like_ the Stark heir. He had a quick wit and sharp tongue and despite their rather obvious differences, the men had quite a bit in common. 

Other than Robb, Jon had been all but left to his own devices. Nobody spoke to him unless it was to ask directions or Mance’s numbers or some other tactical piece of information. He wasn’t given a weapon and he always received his rations last and his blankets were undoubtedly the worst in camp, but it wasn’t awful traveling. Best of all, Ghost was near. The wolf kept out of sight, but Jon could feel his closeness; could see it when he closed his eyes and slipped his skin. Once again, the world was alive with scents and sounds that had been hidden in the wolf’s absence. For the first time in a long while, Jon felt like himself. 

And yet, each night when the distraction of the day melted with the sun, Jon’s thoughts turned to Sansa. To the feel of her lips on his own; the tears in her brilliant eyes; the warmth of her body on those nights when they fell asleep tangled together; the melody of her laugh; the storm of her anger; that one freckle just above her lip and the one on her neck just below her ear. He missed her. The fact annoyed him, but he couldn’t deny it. He missed her so much it hurt. 

It didn’t help that her brother reminded him so much of her – not just in looks, but in his fierceness and stubbornness and even in his kindness. He didn’t have to talk to Jon. He could ignore him like the rest. But no, like his sister Robb Stark wouldn’t just let things be. 

So it was that Jon was laying on his pitiful blankets close to a dying fire thinking about Sansa and that damned little hollow and how he missed Ghost when none other than Eddard fucking Stark sat next to him and began to sharpen his long sword. Ice. The sword that was set to remove his head from his body in a matter of weeks. 

Jon sat up abruptly, unconsciously scooting a little farther away for the instrument of his death. 

“I wanted to speak with you, boy.”

Jon, eyes wide and jaw tight, nodded. Sansa’s father kept his eyes on his sword; his movements slow and steady and controlled. 

“I’ve noticed my son has taken to riding with you.”

“Aye.”

The lord was quiet a moment. “He spoke with my daughter more than I did. I couldn’t bear to see her so upset. Couldn’t bear to look at her after what happened. After I failed to keep her safe.”

Jon looked at his calloused hands, ashamed. A little angry. What kind of man didn’t see his daughter because of his own sense of failure? Perhaps Mance was right about the Starks being cowards.

“But Robb told me what she told him. All of it. Said she claimed you were good to her. Respectful. Kept her safe, fed, warm. You didn’t try anything. You decided to take her to Castle Black without any promise of reward. Knowing that you’d be killed.”

“Aye.”

Finally, Eddard Stark paused in his work. He looked at Jon then, grey eyes dark in the dim light of Jon’s small fire. “Why?”

Jon looked at him blankly for a moment. “Why what?”

“Why did you help her?”

Jon tore his eyes from the older man, peering deeply into the fire. He wrestled with his words; carefully plotting what to say. Crafting in his mind what the lord would want to hear. But in the end, it was only the truth that came from his lips. “She’s good. She’s kind. She didn’t deserve what Mance did. Believe it or not, I wanted to take her home the moment he brought her to camp. I wanted to kill him for it. She was just sobbing and not dressed for the weather and so scared.” He sighed. “It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. I couldn’t bear to see her so upset, and even worse I couldn’t bear to see her hopeless. She just gave up when we reached the Wall and I’ve never been so sick with myself. It was then that I decided to do it. When she lost hope. She’s too good to be hopeless. It’s all selfish. I couldn’t live with my own guilt. I couldn’t go through with taking her back to Mance and live with myself, so I figured I might as well take her home even if it meant my death. I have nobody waiting for me. She did. I’ve never been a very good man, but she’s good.” He shrugged and looked down at his hands.

A thick silence fell, and Jon could feel Eddard Stark’s eyes on him even as he kept his own gaze on the fire. “I had a sister,” the lord finally said. His voice was quieter than before, somber. 

“Aye. Your son told me.”

“He told you what happened to her, then?”

“That she was taken from her family by Rhaegar Targaryen. That she died.”

Lord Stark nodded sadly. “She was about my daughter’s age. She was missing for over a year. We were in a war then.”

“Robert’s Rebellion.”

Sansa’s father’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know it?”

Jon shrugged. “Mance – he’s an old crow. He still pays attention to the politics of the south. Told me stories as a boy. We get news when we raid. Us free folk aren’t as stupid or as ignorant as you kneelers think. I know about Robert’s Rebellion.”

Lord Stark rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. “Well, yes. It was during Robert’s Rebellion. Seven Hells, it’s part of what began it. One of many flames that lit the fire.” He sighed. “I didn’t find my sister until it was too late. She’d had a babe by the dragon prince. It’d been a difficult birth and she never recovered from it.” He was silent a moment before adding, “neither did the babe.”

Jon wasn’t sure what to say. Guilt and sadness and pity for the poor Stark girl who’d been taken from her home swirled within him. He imagined Sansa in the same position. Imagined what could have happened to her if someone else has been picked to take her north. The thought made his heart turn mean.

“Most people don’t know about the babe,” Stark continued. “Most people also don’t know that my sister claimed she loved the man who stole her. That he’d saved her from a marriage she wished to escape. That he’d been kind to her. Had seen her as a real person, not just a pretty bauble.” He shook his head. “My point is – when Sansa was gone, I feared the worst, as any father would. I feared that I would have another Lyanna. But the worst didn’t come and for that I’m grateful. You say you aren’t a good man, but I think you are. I’m angry at you. Don’t mistake me. I am so furiously angry it feels as if I could bring down the Wall myself. But I do believe you are a good man. You brought her home. That’s more than can be said for Rhaegar Targaryen, who everyone had always claimed as a good man. A man of honor.” 

With another sigh, Stark stood and slipped his sword back into its sheath. He turned to go, but before he got very far, he gave Jon a long glance. “My son tells me my daughter claims you’re a skinchanger. That you have a direwolf. Is he following us?”

Panic shot through Jon like a knife. Would they kill Ghost? Would they hunt him down? He could reach out to him tonight. He would make him run as far as he could. Let the Starks bring justice upon him, but Ghost had done nothing wrong. Suddenly, Eddard Stark was standing over him, one hand reaching down to brace Jon’s shoulder. “It might be useful to have a wolf in camp. I assume he hunts? Brings you food? We could all use fresher meat. He’d make a good scout too I’m sure.”

Jon’s mouth went slack as his eyes widened in shock. This had to be some trick. No way Eddard Stark would be _stupid_ enough to allow his prisoner to bring a fucking direwolf into camp – a direwolf whose skin he could slip into as easily as his own. “Are – are you sure? Is this some ploy to kill him?”

Stark frowned. “I’m not a particularly superstitious man, but even I draw a line at killing the beast that has graced my family’s sigil for thousands of years. The Stark kings used to have direwolves, you know. Stark lords are still buried beneath statutes that depict them with a direwolf curled at their feet. There are even tales that the kings were skinchangers themselves. No, wildling, I’d be a fool to kill such a beast. And while many in this camp – and surely my sweet wife – would argue that I am a fool for trusting you as I do, I can assure you the wolf will not be harmed.”

* 

Things were easier after that. Of course, neither he nor Ghost received many smiles. But more people spoke to Jon. Slowly, surely, he got to know names and stories and be included in jokes. At the end of their third week searching for Mance and his camp, Jon was even given a nicer blanket by a crow of all people. 

Lord Stark listened to his counsel with sincerity and Robb Stark continued to ride beside him each day, telling him about Winterfell and his pregnant kneeler wife and the south and kneeler customs and asking Jon incessant questions about Ghost and the free folk and the true north. By the end of the fourth week, Jon was even enjoying his time and his company. Truthfully, he had become _fond_ of the three Starks – even Benjen who had been the slowest to warm to Jon in even the smallest degree. 

Then, of course, there was the night when the entire camp, Jon included, sat in stunned silence as Ghost not only approached Lord Stark, but nuzzled his shoulder in search of affection. A sea of eyes turned to Jon, who was staring slack-jawed at the damned wolf. Finally, he cleared his throat and shrugged, telling his companions “I suppose a direwolf can recognize a direwolf.” He couldn’t help but smile as a wave of laughter traveled the camp.

In a strange way, it felt like he belonged. 

* 

Jon would never be grateful for wights. Never. They were cursed, awful things. All trace of humanity gone even if a few, vague memories lingered. Memories useful to the Others – to the puppet masters of the frozen, decayed remains of humanity. Beyond those memories, they were just cursed, hollow shells. 

No, he was not grateful for wights. 

But when a pack of them descended on the Starks’ camp in the dead of night and Lord Stark and his brother saw the creatures with their own eyes – well. Jon wasn’t too disappointed. 

The men gathered around the central fire, chests heaving, eyes wide in fear and disbelief. None were wider than the Starks’. Jon dropped to the snowy ground. His leg ached something fierce after the hasty battle. 

“Seven dead,” Lord Stark was murmuring. “Seven dead.”

“Burn them.”

Three dozen eyes turned towards Jon. He looked up from where he was seated in the snow, rubbing his throbbing leg. “They’ll rise tomorrow if you do anything but burn them now. Do you want more of _those_ ,” he asked, gesturing towards what remained of the pack of wights. “We need to light more fires anyways.” Jon looked around warily. “It’s unlikely, but their masters could be close at hand too.” Ghost dropped down beside Jon, muzzle wet with rotten, congealed blood.

Robb stared at him like he’d grown four heads. Eddard Stark’s eyes narrowed at Jon. “How long has this been happening? How long have these… these _things_ been stalking the woods?”

Jon shrugged, somehow even more annoyed at all these kneelers now that they saw the proof of what he’d warned. “A year? A few years? It’s been getting progressively worse. Mance thinks it's linked to the seasons changing – that the Others will come in force when the winter winds blow.”

Stark turned to his brother. “And you had no idea, Ben?”

The First Ranger was still trying to catch his breath; his eyes glued to the bodies of four crows and three Stark men. “I told you – we had rumors. Nothing else.” He gestured blindly towards Jon. “You know how they are – all myths and tales and rumors. Old Nan told stories of Others alongside tales of grumpkins and snarks and giants.”

Jon snorted. “I can’t wait to see you witness a giant for the first time.”

Benjen Stark finally turned away from the bodies and towards Jon. “Giants?”

Jon nodded. “Mance has got a whole host of them.” _The last of them,_ he thought bitterly. _Because of your damn Wall._ “Mammoths too. I can’t speak for grumpkins and snarks, but I can assure you giants and Others and wights and mammoths are all very real.”

Somewhere in the gathered crowd a man groaned. Another cursed. Robb dropped into the snow beside Jon, his head in his hands. Eddard Stark held Jon’s gaze for a long moment. “Burn them,” he finally said, voice low and cool as ice. “Burn the bodies. All of them – including those _things_.”

* 

The den was too small. Anxiety thrummed through his body; doubt clouded his mind. It smelled right though. He smelled Mance. Dalla. Val. Tormund even. The others had to be somewhere else. The huge mass of men had gathered in another place. Only the leaders were here. The alphas. A good amount of men with their sharp sticks, but not all of them. Nowhere near all of them. He paced around the circle of tents, mouth watering at the smell of cooking meat. The smell of fresh blood. A new kill. Dinner. Hunt. He needed to hunt. He needed – 

Jon opened his eyes. Shook himself as if he were still a direwolf. 

“They’re close,” he muttered, avoiding Eddard Stark’s eyes. “Just over the rise.”

The lord nodded and looked to the looming hill before them. “How many?”

Jon sat up. Brushed snow from his shoulders. Shrugged. “Fifty or so? Not the whole army, that’s for sure. Didn’t smell them either, so they aren’t close.”

Robb stood from where he’d been crouching near Jon. “Why? Why wouldn’t Mance go back to his army?”

Jon shrugged again. 

“He knows we’re after him,” Benjen Stark said thoughtfully, warily watching Ghost silently lope down the hill. “He doesn’t want us to find their full forces. Doesn’t want us to have too much intel.”

“Maybe,” Jon replied, scratching Ghost behind the ears when the wolf nudged his face with a wet, cold nose. “But he has his family too. Most of his commanders. They’re like sitting ducks. And he knows I’ll know it.” He turned to Eddard, finally meeting the older man’s heavy gaze. “He wants to talk to you, I think. He wants you to find him. I knew he was too easy to track. Especially with Ghost. He wants you to find him.”

“A trap?” Robb asked, face drawn in concern. 

Jon shook his head. “No.” He dropped back into the snow, covering his face with the crook of his elbow. “No. There’s no more. I would have smelled them.”

“Ghost would have smelled them.”

“Aye, that’s what I said.”

There was silence for a moment. Jon could practically see the Starks exchanging looks. 

“Alright,” Lord Stark finally said with a huff. “Let’s get back to camp then. We’ll go over the rise tomorrow and we’ll meet with your King-Beyond-the-Wall, wildling.” 

Jon let Robb pull him up. Let his fingers dig into Ghost’s fur on the walk back. It had taken a lot of convincing for him to slip his skin in front of the Starks. He’d insisted only they could see. A skinchanger was vulnerable when he was out of his body. Especially when his familiar was far away. It had only been when Benjen pointed out that if the Starks wanted him dead he’d already be dead that Jon agreed to it. Even so, he didn’t like being vulnerable around them. 

Didn’t like how much it felt like trust. 

* 

Frankly, it was a miracle Jon made it as far as he did. 

Tormund’s knife was to his throat, the man’s rotting breath at his ear reminding Jon of every unfortunate bout of inebriation he’d experienced thanks to fermented goat’s milk. Stark and his men all had their kneeler swords drawn; Mance’s people had their varying weapons drawn as well. 

Ghost snarled something fierce from where he was positioned in front of Robb; watching Tormund very, very closely. 

The air was thick with tension. _Thick as Tormund's goat milk_ , Jon thought with a foolish grin. He was about to die. Might as well find something to smile about.

“Bold of you to be grinning, boy,” Mance said, emerging from his tent. All eyes turned to him, including Ghost’s bright red ones. “Bold of you to come here at all. Bold of you to bring _them_.” 

Maybe it was fear or maybe he’d finally just lost it or maybe it was the fact the man he’d always thought of as an uncle had a knife to his throat, but Jon laughed. Hearty and full and loud. After all, he’d known from the moment he met her that Sansa Stark would be the death of him. And now finally - _finally_ \- it seemed like that death was at hand. 

“Bold of you to kidnap my daughter, you son of a whore,” Eddard Stark cursed, spitting at Mance’s feet. 

“Well, I heard you got her back,” Mance replied with a smirk. He gestured to Jon. “Thanks to this son of a whore.” He took a step forward and the air clattered with the sound of weapons being readied. The knife at Jon’s throat dug a little deeper. Ghost’s silent snarl deepened. “You here to kill me, Stark?”

Eddard Stark looked around, eyes landing on Jon for a moment, then he set his jaw and sheathed his sword. “I wish I was, and don’t think I’m not still considering it. But no. I’m here to talk with you. It’s my understanding we have a common enemy.” 

Mance’s gaze shot over to Jon. “You told them?”

“Was I not supposed to?” The knife dug deeper as he spoke. Jon felt the pinch of its blade and the warm well of blood. 

The King-Beyond-the-Wall waved a hand at Tormund, and suddenly the knife was gone. “You were supposed to meet us at the bleeding checkpoint.”

“Let’s you and I talk,” Lord Stark broke in. “My brother as well, representing the Night’s Watch.” All the free folk spit at the mention of the black brotherhood. Benjen Stark glared and spat right back. 

Mance chuckled. “I stole your daughter. You really expect me to sit and treat with you? My wife is in that tent with her child. My wife’s sister and her child as well. I’ll not risk-”

“I swear by the old gods – on the honor of the Starks – that I will not harm you this day so long as you swear the same.”

“I’ll not swear by the bleeding Starks.”

Robb took a step forward only to be stopped by the quick hand of his uncle. 

Eddard Stark stared Mance down. “You need our help. I know you do. I’ve met the creatures myself now – at least I’ve met what they make of men. We knew of your position last night. We could have killed you already, but we haven’t. You think I don’t want you dead? You think I don’t want to have this bastard’s wolf tear you limb from limb for what you did? But I’ll sit and discuss an alliance with you because I can’t afford your people all being turned into _that_.” 

Mance shot Jon a look. “Working for them now, boy? I raised you. You’d really sic Ghost on me.” 

Jon clenched his jaw and looked at the snow rather than the man who had raised him. Rather than the men who had brought him here. Truth was, he didn’t know how to answer. No, he’d probably not be willing to kill Mance. But was he happy with the ass after this whole mess? No. 

“Talk with them, Mance. That was the whole plan wasn’t it?” he asked, rubbing at his throat. His glove came away a little damp with blood. He shot Tormund a glare, but the gruff wildling just narrowed his eyes angrily. He turned back to Mance. “You stole San – the Stark girl so we’d have a bargaining chip. Well, the kneelers are at the table.”

Mance gave him a hard look for a long, long moment. The tension seemed to rise with every passing second. Finally, he nodded. “But that turncloak stays out here,” he told Lord Stark, pointing at Jon. “I want him tied up.”

Eddard Stark shrugged. “Fine with me.”

In a second, Tormund was on Jon again, securing him to a nearby tree with a stinking coil of rope. Jon let himself be jostled as he watched the Starks and some of their men disappear into Mance’s tent. Ghost watched Tormund carefully. When he was done, Tormund took a step back and stared down at Jon. “Why’d you do it, boy? We treated you well. You had a life for yourself. Thought of you as his son, Mance did. Fuck, I did too in a way. Was she really that beautiful?” 

_You have no idea._ “It was the right thing to do.”

Tormund clucked his tongue. “I’ve hit you one too many times on the head I think. You’re dumber than a mammoth.”

Jon couldn’t help but grin at his old friend. “I won’t argue that.”

Tormund smiled and shook his head. “You’re a fucking idiot. Even if Mance wanted you back, the others’ll never accept you.”

Jon’s smile faded. “Doesn’t matter. They’re taking me back to Winterfell. An execution.” 

“Isn’t right,” Tormund frowned. “You’ve been a pain in my ass for twenty years. If anyone is gonna take you out of this shit world, it should be me.” 

Jon grinned again as Tormund kicked snow at him. “You’re a fucking idiot, boy. Always have been.” With that, he left Jon on his own with only Ghost for company as he moved to join Mance in his tent along with Mance’s other close confidants. 

Hours passed. Jon received a litany of glares, curses, and more than a few well-aimed spits, but thanks to Ghost nobody messed with him. All faces familiar. All now as good as strangers for the regard they gave him. Jon indulged for a moment – imagined what Ygritte would say. Wondered what Val must be thinking in Mance’s tent. If she would come and see him before he was finally, finally marched off to his death. 

The afternoon sun was hanging low in the sky when everyone finally emerged. Jon looked away when he saw Val’s honey blonde hair among the crowd. She’d called him a coward once before. He wasn’t eager to hear it from her lips again. One of Benjen Stark’s crows must have been picked to come free him. The man wasn’t gentle about it and grinned in satisfaction when he saw Jon rub at his ribs where the rope had been particularly tight. His leg ached as he stood and followed the ranger through the snow.

“Ah the turncloak returns,” Mance said, eyeing Jon warily. “I’ve heard you’re to be executed in Winterfell.”

Jon pursed his lips. “Aye, for your crime.”

“Crime was it? Not too long ago you wouldn’t have called it that. Thought you were of the free folk.”

Jon caught Val’s eye and looked away. “I was. I am.”

Someone behind him shouted that he wasn’t. Mance shrugged, smirking slightly. Jon met Mance’s gaze. “If stealing a maid from her bed to imitate some old song is the way of the free folk, then aye, maybe I’m not one of you after all.” 

Mance looked at him for a long moment. “Truthfully, boy, I always knew this day would come. I hoped it wouldn’t, but I felt it in my bones. It’s in your blood, it is. I can only hope you didn’t fuck the girl.”

All the Stark men moved towards Mance in an instant. Free folk drew their weapons, but Mance put his hand up to stop the imminent bloodshed. 

“Didn’t touch her,” Jon muttered, feeling as if he’d been repeating that phrase too much lately. 

“Good. The gods frown upon fucking your sister, after all.” 

It took a good couple of moments for the words to sink in. Robb Stark was the first to parse them. “And what do you mean by that, wildling?” he snarled. 

Eddard and Benjen Stark’s heads whipped to Jon, eyes wide suddenly. “Ned,” Benjen muttered, grabbing his brother’s arm. “He’s twenty. The Old Bear himself said-”

Mance started laughing and moved towards Jon, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I should have told you sooner, boy. But then I grew to like you. And sending you over that Wall to raid Winterfell was too sweet a joke, even if I was the only one to know it. Bael’s own son killed him. Felt a little like that. Sending Eddard’s own boy to raid him. Letting Eddard’s own boy be the one to steal Eddard’s own winter rose.” 

A deep, dark fear settled low in Jon’s belly then. A pit that felt like it was going to swallow him whole. He felt sick. He felt numb. 

“Father,” Robb muttered. “What is he saying? What does he mean your son?”

Mance laughed again and turned to Eddard. “Twenty years ago I happened to be in Winterfell. Happened to be in the stables when a small, strange party arrived all the way from Dorne. A milk mother. A babe. Three Stark soldiers. Heard them talking – something about the babe being Lord Eddard Stark’s son. His bastard by some Dornish whore. The honorable Eddard Stark, siring a bastard in wartime.” He chuckled. “It was almost too easy. Took the maid and the babe. Unfortunately, the girl died on the journey north, but I was able to find us a goat to keep the boy alive until we were back home.”

Benjen Stark moved towards Mance, but his brother grabbed him. Jon was rooted to the spot. He felt like he was falling. The pit in his stomach grew and grew until it felt as if it would swallow him. What was it Sansa said? That he looked just like her father? The old crow had said he looked like a Stark too. He was a foundling – that’s what he’d always been told. A baby Mance came across who had nobody and nothing. “You’re lying,” he whispered. Sansa couldn't be his sister. He couldn't be Stark. No, No. No. This couldn't be true. 

The king looked him dead in the eye. “Jon, you’ve known me just about your whole life. You know when I’m lying. All it takes is one look at the two of you – the resemblance is uncanny. Aye, boy, a part of me always knew you’d betray me. It’s that craven Stark blood in you. I’d hoped it would be your true father you’d betray like Bael’s boy did, though, I must admit. Not me.” 

Jon fell to his knees. He didn’t even feel the bite of the snow soaking through his trousers. 

“You’re lying,” Robb yelled, sword drawn suddenly. 

“Put away your sword, Robb.”

“Father, he’s lying! You would never father a-”

“He’s telling the damn truth,” Lord Stark snarled. Jon met his eyes. They were hard but resigned; sad but determined. “It’s the truth,” he repeated. “I had a son. He’d be twenty now. Even as a babe, he had my look. Went missing along with his milk mother. Never found.”

And just like that, Jon’s world utterly fell apart.

* 

Robb wouldn’t talk to him. Wouldn’t even _look_ at him. And how could he? 

Jon gripped the reins of his horse tighter; felt the pickle of a dozen eyes on him. The stares had started as soon as word spread of his true identity. The stares and the whispers and the silence. Nobody knew how to be around him; what to say. Was he a lordling now? Or still the wildling bastard who stole Lord Stark’s daughter? Fuck. Stole his own _sister_. 

No wonder Robb won’t look at him.

Robb had been there. Had seen the kiss. Gods, if only he knew the other, filthy things that had taken root and residence in Jon’s mind since he first met Sansa. _His own fucking sister._ Anger coursed through Jon as he gripped the reins so tightly it hurt. He bit the inside of his cheek and desperately tried to let the wave of pure rage crash over him and carry back out to sea. 

Mance knew. He fucking knew. This whole time – all those years being told that the Starks were the enemy; that they were weak and craven and cruel. All those raids Mance sent him on knowing full well that it was Jon’s own family he was stealing from. His own family he was spying on. What would have been his home he was breaking into. 

The nerve to make him - _him_ \- be the one responsible for bringing his own damn sister over the Wall. 

Bael the Bard indeed. He’d always known Mance loved that tale, but he’d never expected to be the punchline of it. 

Jon sneaked a glance at Robb. As if feeling his stare, the Stark – _his brother_ – briefly locked eyes with him before hurriedly looking away. Jon clenched his jaw. 

Gods, they never should have stolen Sansa Stark. He could have lived his life in peace never knowing he was the kneeler bastard son of a gods’ damned Stark. It wasn’t as if his fucking _father_ was making this any more palatable. The lord also barely spoke to him; barely looked at him. Somehow, Jon the Stark was much less welcome than Jon the Wildling. 

“Not far now,” Benjen Stark muttered next to him. Surprisingly, the last Stark to warm to Jon the Wildling was the first to warm to Jon the Stark. “We should reach the Wall by tomorrow afternoon.”

“And then what?” Jon asked glumly. “The happy reunion at Winterfell? Or the kiss of death?”

Benjen glanced at him. “My brother hasn’t decided, but I can’t imagine kinslaying is a priority of his.”

“I’m not a Stark.”

The crow chuckled. “You’re a son of a bitch is what you are.”

“Careful, won’t want Lord Stark to hear you call my mother that now.”

Benjen Stark grinned. “Oh aye, he heard me call her that plenty of times – in a loving manner always. Never did end well for me, though.”

Jon frowned and turned in his saddle. “You knew her?”

Stark only smiled at him before kicking his heels to join his brother at the head of the party. 

* 

Things didn’t improve once they returned. Jon wasn’t locked in a cell anymore, but he might as well have been. Few people talked to him, fewer people looked at him. The Starks were distant, aside from Benjen who insisted on training and testing him in the yard almost as soon as they got back. More Stark stupidity. Giving a wildling a blade and an unprotected throat. Stupid. Gods, he hoped he hadn’t inherited that stupidity. 

All he really wanted was to talk to Sansa. To tell her neither of them knew and she shouldn’t feel bad or gross or embarrassed. She did nothing wrong. It was him. He was the one who was sick. Disgusting. She was probably purposely avoiding him. She probably couldn’t stand even the thought of looking at him. 

Jon spent most of his first day and night back wandering the top of the Wall with Ghost, rubbing at his fresh bruises from Benjen Stark’s training sword. He felt like a ghost himself. Like a man who belonged nowhere. He’d once prided himself on being of the free folk – but after Mance’s deception, the thought disgusted him. Even if he wanted back in, he’d never get it. He’d betrayed them. He was a bloody kneeler’s son. A _Stark’s_ son. _The_ Stark’s son. 

Robb was waiting for him in the darkness by the winch. Jon squinted at his shadow as he approached, Ghost charging out ahead to greet the heir. 

“I haven’t told,” Robb muttered as Jon brushed past him towards the rough, wooden stairs. “And I won’t. Sansa’s mortified too. But you didn’t know. Neither of you did. Nobody did.”

Jon didn’t respond. He felt sick. For a moment he wished for a gust of wind to blow him off the narrow stairs just to avoid this conversation. Gods, he missed Robb’s silent treatment. 

“She’s going home tomorrow. Back to Winterfell. Mother is anxious to see her. So are the boys and Arya. Alys is having our baby soon. Sansa wants to be there for it.”

The images crossed his mind before he could stop it. Sansa holding a babe. Sansa with a babe in her belly. Sansa with a little girl with blood-red hair and those blue, blue eyes. He bit his lip so hard it bled. 

“We’re staying here a little while longer to plan with the Old Bear,” Robb continued. “Then we’ll return as well. At least I will. I want to meet my son. Or daughter. Gods man – will you please just stop for a second?” A gloved hand grabbed his arm. “We need to fucking talk about it!”

Jon gritted his teeth and turned, still not making eye contact with his _brother_. “About what?”

“Gods, you aren’t that dumb. Don’t be such an ass.”

Finally, Jon turned his glare on Robb. “I’m the ass? You’ve barely looked at me since Mance told everyone. You spent the whole journey there talking to me nonstop and then nothing. Nothing! Why should we talk now? What is there even to discuss?”

“You’re my _brother_!”

“And?”

Robb opened and closed his mouth. “And… and… I don’t know, okay! But this is bizarre!” 

“Aye, it is fucking bizarre, kneeler. I’m part of the family I’ve been taught to despise my whole life. I’m no longer a part of the only world I’ve ever known. I’m still not sure if you’re father - _our father_ \- is going to kill me. And to top it all off, I kissed my sister. It’s a fucking mess and I’m not sure what part of it you want to discuss, because personally I’d love to never discuss any of it.” 

An awkward silence fell over them then. Ghost, that traitor, pushed his nose against Robb’s cheek. The heir rubbed the wolf’s head, causing Jon so shiver. Causing him to remember that damned hollow and that damned girl and her damn bath. “Don’t touch him,” Jon grit out, resuming his punishing pace down the massive staircase. 

“So, it’s going to be like that, wilding?”

“Like what?”

“You’re acting like a child.”

Jon scoffed. “Rich coming from you. Did Daddy send you to look for me?”

Robb grabbed his arm again and Jon yanked it from him with a growl of frustration. 

“Jon, we’re brothers. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything on the way back but its-”

Jon turned again, resuming his pace down the stairs and tried to feel relieved when he didn’t hear Robb following him any longer. 

* 

True to Robb’s word, Sansa left the next morning. Jon stood in the shadows of the yard, leaning against an ancient stone wall, and watched as she mounted her horse. She was wearing the white cloak again. The one she’d kissed him in. Her dress today was pink. Light, like the sunrise on snow. Like the blush of her cheeks. He looked away, ashamed of himself again. Ashamed of how much he still wanted her. 

When he looked up again, her eyes were locked on him, the very blush he’d been imagining now spreading across her pale cheeks. He watched her jaw tighten; the bob of her throat as she swallowed; the way her delicate eyebrows folded together. Watched her look away quickly. 

Too quickly. 

Watched her leave. Told himself he’d never see her again. Told himself that was for the best. 

He’d always been bad about wanting what he couldn’t have. And Sansa Stark was now more than ever something he could _never_ have. 

*

The rider came three days after they returned to Castle Black. The raven arrived only an hour later. 

“The king is dead,” Lord Eddard Stark announced the gathered men in the shield hall. “May the gods save the new king, Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name.”

The atmosphere was odd – men didn’t seem quite to know how to act. Whether to be sad or not. Personally, Jon couldn’t care less about the old king or the new king. He only knew that Sansa had said Joffrey was awful and was secretly delightfully glad that the betrothal had likely fallen through. 

Simply because this Joffrey was awful. 

Not because he wanted Sansa for himself – because he didn’t. She was his bloody sister. What kind of disgusting cretin of a man wanted his own sister? 

Just then, Lord Stark caught Jon’s eye and a shock of fear burned through him. Did the man somehow know what he was thinking? Had Robb told him about the kiss? Had Sansa told him about those nights they spent pressed so tightly together? For a long, awful moment, Eddard Stark stared at him – eyes heavy with meaning. Then, just as quickly as it had happened, it ended. The lord descended the raised platform and was out the door before Jon could blink. 

* 

When Eddard Stark called Jon to his chambers that evening, Jon felt ill. An intense foreboding hung over him like a fog. He had been given a room, not a cell. Nice kneeler clothing that he hadn’t touched. Good food. Even a steward who emptied a chamber pot for him. So Jon didn’t _think_ he was still set to be executed. All the same, it didn’t feel good to be summoned to the lord’s chambers. 

Even seeing Eddard Stark made him uncomfortable now. Knowing that man was his father. It didn’t feel right. Didn’t seem right. Jon couldn’t shake the feeling this was all some strange, twisted dream induced by Tormund’s fermented goat’s milk. Maybe Sansa was right and the Seven Hells were real and he’d stumbled his way into one of them. When he entered the chamber Benjen and Robb were already there, both staring glumly into their mugs of ale. Lord Stark stood by a window, looking out at the swirling autumn snows. At the sound of the closing door, he turned and offered Jon a wane smile. “Sit. Would you like some ale?”

Jon shook his head and took a cautious seat next to Robb. The heir glanced at him and then looked away quickly. The fog of dread about him turned into a damned downpour then. Robb must have told Eddard what he saw. Eddard must have figured it out. He must have seen it in Jon’s eyes in the shield hall. Or maybe Sansa had told him about the hollow. Lord Stark had disappeared into Sansa’s chambers for hours after they returned to the Wall. That must be it. He’d pieced together the corrupt workings of Jon’s heart and was going to confront him about this dark, _wrong_ thing that had taken root. This desire that still hadn’t gone away even though he _knew_ now. Knew that she was his sister. Gods, it was bad enough he wanted her when she was utterly helpless and dependent on him. That was already shameful. But now? Now? Now he really – 

“Jon, Robb. There is something we must discuss. I thought it would be years before I’d have to do this – maybe even that I never would. But I’ve had a letter from Jon Arryn regarding the boy on the throne, and Robert Baratheon is dead. There are rumors of Targaryens across the narrow sea, and it seems as if the gods are telling me it’s time.” He sighed and slumped into a seat across from Jon and Robb. The one next to his brother. 

“Jon,” Lord Stark began after a moment, hand rubbing at his beard. “I never thought I’d see you again. Last I did, you were a babe in Dorne. As Mance indicated, I sent you north with a milkmaid and guards. You were to be brought to Winterfell to be raised alongside my own son,” he nodded to Robb. Jon glanced at his half-brother. The heir’s knuckles were white with the force of his grip on his mug. “But obviously, things didn’t work out that way.”

“Father,” Robb interrupted suddenly, voice hard and loud; eyes wide as if even he was surprised by the sound of it. He cleared his throat. “Father, I just… I don’t understand. You’re a man of honor. Everyone knows that. You’ve always taught me and Theon to treat women… You’ve always said I must remain faithful to Alys now that we are wed; that vows said before a heart tree cannot be broken. That to stray isn’t… I thought you loved mother.” He glanced at Jon again, face red. 

Eddard Stark sighed. “And that is all true. A good man does not stray from his wife, no matter how he is tempted. And I love your mother very much.”

Jon felt as if he was folding in on himself – which made him angry. Why did he feel this guilt? He’d done nothing wrong. At least, not in this respect. It wasn’t _his_ fault Eddard Stark had fathered a son by a woman other than his wife. Other than Robb’s mother. 

There was a knock at the door, and all four men looked to it; eagerly searching for an escape from this already painfully awkward conversation. 

“Enter.”

The old crow slipped in from the cold, a gust of snowflakes coming in with him. He gave Jon a long look before slipping off his cloak. Longclaw was strapped to his back. The sight of it made Jon turn away. 

“You sent for me, Lord Stark?”

“Aye, have a seat, please. There is a grave matter I must discuss with my… with my family. I’d like a witness outside of the family to be present. No doubt we will soon enter turbulent times, and this information is sensitive.”

Mormont frowned but nodded, taking a seat and the mug of ale Benjen offered him. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Ned,” Benjen muttered, glancing at Jon and then quickly away. Somehow, all of this felt like a trial to Jon. Like he was here to be judged. He clenched his jaw and his fists, trying to stay calm. Eddard sighed and nodded.

His words and tone were blunt; right to the point. “Jon, you are not my son.” 

The air left the room. Jon was on his feet in an instant, the feel of Robb’s eyes burning his back. “I knew it. I knew Mance was lying. I knew there was no way that I’d-”

“Sit,” Lord Stark said wearily. “I’ve not finished.”

Dread coiled in Jon as he sank back into his seat. 

“Mance didn’t lie, he just didn’t have the whole truth. He believes he stole my bastard son from my keep because I was prepared to tell the world that’s who you were. I sent you and the milkmaid ahead as I cleaned up more of Robert’s shit in the south. Before I could get back home – before Catelyn could even get home, you were taken along with your nurse. I was informed of it by raven. I tried as best I could while still locked in the south to have my men search for you, but there was no trace.” He turned to Robb. “Only a handful of people knew about Jon, so to preserve your mother’s heart and peace of mind, I demanded they swear to secrecy. Nobody could know Jon had ever even been in Winterfell. That he’d even been born.”

Anger churned in Jon then. “So you all just pretended I didn’t exist?” he hissed. “You lost a babe and you just-”

“What was I to do?” Eddard cut in. “I couldn’t look for you myself, my new wife and son were on their way, and matters were much more complicated than you currently understand.”

“I looked for you,” Benjen said, voice hard and earnest. Strangely, Jon felt the prickle of tears behind his eyes but willed them not to fall. “I did all I could. I was the one Ned was writing to; the one who swore those who knew to secrecy. After weeks, we had to assume you were dead or simply stolen. It happens sometimes. It was awful. Horrible. But there was nothing more we could do. Ned returned, Catelyn and Robb arrived, and I took the Black. We went on, but it is not as if we forgot you. Ned and I… we remembered. We did.”

Jon bit his lip and stared at the floor, feeling very much like a little boy all of a sudden. 

“Why wouldn’t you tell mother?” Robb asked then, anger lacing his own voice. “She deserved to know about-”

“He’s not my son,” Eddard interrupted. “As I told you both, Jon is not my son. I was prepared to adopt him as my bastard. To let the world believe he was mine. But he isn’t.”

“Gods,” Mormont muttered in horror, causing everyone to turn to him. “Stark – you can’t mean… tell me he isn’t… Twenty years old with the look of a Stark. Sent north from the south while you continued to fight Robert’s-”

“Aye,” Eddard grimaced. Some how, some way, Jon knew what he was going to say before he said it. Dread and fear and anger and sorrow settled heavy in his chest as he prepared himself for what came next. “He’s my sister’s boy. Lyanna’s.” He turned to Jon then; grey eyes dark and somber and so very sad. “He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I was all “oh maybe I can be convinced to do a part 2” lololololol *cries*
> 
> (I’m guessing 7 chapters, but I’m not committing to anything because it easily could be more or less)
> 
> Time jump coming after next chapter (which I’m lovingly titling Jon’s very bad no good angsty hours), so strap on your seatbelts and prepare for a wedding night in approximately ~2 to 4 chapters~ (again, no promises. Except the promise that there _will_ be a wedding night. Possibly a wedding morning. Maybe a post wedding afternoon.)
> 
> Again, I know there isn't a lot of jonsa in here (and tbh there won't be a ton next chapter) but beginning in chapter 5 is is full on 24/7 jonsa with no distractions I promise. I just have a lot of feelings about wildling jon and have to flesh him out OKAY


	4. Chapter 4

The old crow let out a low curse. He rose to his feet and began to pace. Benjen and Eddard kept their heavy grey eyes on Jon as Robb slumped back into his chair muttering something incoherent under his breath. 

Jon felt locked into place. He couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. 

He _wasn’t_ Eddard Stark’s son. 

But was this better? All he knew about Rhaegar was that he was the son of the last dragon king of the kneelers; that he had stolen Eddard’s sister and that she had died. 

_His mother._ He’d stolen Jon’s mother, and she’d died. 

“No,” Jon muttered. A tight wave of revulsion twisted in his gut like a traitor’s knife. “No. No, no,” he repeated, voice growing louder and more firm. He pointed a finger at Eddard Stark harshly. “You told me her babe died. You told me she didn’t survive the birthing and neither did the babe.”

Lord Stark sighed. “Aye, Jon. That’s the lie I’ve been telling for years. It’s easier than saying you lived and were lost within the bleeding walls of Winterfell.” 

“Not to mention it’s much safer than letting anyone know you lived at all,” Benjen added. “We didn’t know what had happened, but if word spread that the son of Rhaegar Targaryen could be alive somewhere, the realm would never know peace. Every boy of an age with you would be examined. Some likely executed.”

“None of this was easy.” Eddard Stark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods, it’s been my constant heartache for years and years now. But we had to plan. We had to be careful. We had to do what was right for our family and for the realm.” 

Jon was on his feet in an instant, pacing as agitation boiled in him. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

“Why didn’t you tell us right away?” Robb asked suddenly. “On the way back to Castle Black?” he glanced at Jon, face a little flushed in a way that told Jon the heir was thinking of Sansa. _Gods,_ Sansa wasn’t his sister. She was his cousin. But did that really make a difference? “Why let us believe he was your son for so long?”

Mormont dropped back into his seat. “Robert.”

“Aye,” Stark nodded. “Robert. As soon as one person outside this room finds out who Jon is, news will spread like wildfire. Robert wouldn’t hesitate. He wanted all the Targaryens dead. It wouldn’t matter that Lyanna loved Rhaegar. It wouldn’t matter that she bore Jon. All Robert would see is his dragon blood.”

“Aunt Lyanna loved Rhaegar?” Robb exclaimed. “Mother always said-”

“Your mother didn’t speak to my sister, did she?” Lord Stark interrupted, jaw set in frustration. “The whole damn kingdom has decided that Rhaegar stole and raped her, and there was no point in fighting it when everyone involved was dead – when Robert still sat on the throne and pushed that narrative. But it was never true.”

“Lyanna loved him,” Benjen added, a small, sad smile on his lips. “They’d met at the tourney at Harrenhal. Stayed in contact. She didn’t want to marry Robert, and Rhaegar told her he’d help her escape apparently. We didn’t know until it was too late.”

Eddard Stark sighed. “We don’t know the details of it, but Jon,” he turned to Jon who was still pacing; fists clenched so hard his nails dug into the skin of his palms, bile rising in his throat as he compared himself to his newfound father. Both stealers of Stark women. “Your mother was not raped. And she went willingly, she was not stolen.”

A voice in the back of Jon’s mind told him that information should calm him; should temper the fire bubbling and burning in his throat. But the rage didn’t dissipate. “I’m nobody,” he spit out. “I’m a man of the free folk. I’ve no clan. I’m a foundling. I’m not a bloody kneeler. I’m not a wolf or a dragon or any other bloody kneeler’s animal.” If this was the gods’ punishment for stealing Sansa, they were cleverer than Jon had ever imagined. He wished his neck had felt the kiss of Ice instead. Finally, he stopped pacing. The weight of four sets of eyes were on his back as he glared into the fire. “How do you know,” he asked after a moment. “How do you know Mance isn’t a fucking liar?”

He heard a sigh behind him. The scratch of wood against stone. Heavy footsteps. Eddard Stark’s hand on his shoulder was heavy. “You look like my father, Jon. Spitting image. You’ve got the Stark look. You’re the right age. Mance knew the number of the party you were sent with – all the details add up to a clear sum.”

And he knew it too. As Jon stared into the twisting flames, he knew deep in his bones that what Stark said was true. And he hated it. Gritting his jaw, Jon turned and brushed Eddard Stark’s hand from his shoulder as he made for the door. 

“Jon,” Lord Stark said gruffly, but Jon didn’t stop. His fingers wrapped around the door handle and pulled, but in an instant Benjen Stark was beside him slamming his hand to the wood. 

“Wait, boy. There’s more.”

Bile rose in his throat again. “More? What more could there _possibly_ be?”

“There’s proof of your birth,” Eddard Stark said from where he still stood by the fire. “In Winterfell. Hidden in your Mother’s grave. Proof your father legitimized you as well.”

Robb’s eyes widened. “He has a claim?”

“A claim?” Jon frowned, confused. 

“Robert’s dead. By right the throne goes to Joffrey,” Mormont cut in. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Ned, you and I are old friends, but I’ll not be party to treason.”

Lord Stark shook his head and sighed, coming back to his chair. “I’ve received a letter from Jon Arryn. Robert has no legitimate children to pass the crown to. Arryn claims Joffrey is a bastard. All three children are, apparently. All three sired by Jamie Lannister.”

The old crow and Robb gasped as Jon stared at Lord Stark blankly. The names meant nothing to him. He couldn’t care less who sat on the kneeler throne or who fathered Joffrey. He wanted Ghost. He wanted to go home. He wanted the peace and quiet of the woods. He wanted the chill of the snow. He wanted to go back to the bloody night that Mance walked into camp with Sansa and drag her straight back to the keep because as lovely as she was – and _gods_ was she lovely – the last moons had been nothing short of a nightmare. 

“Jon.” The sound of his name drew Jon’s eyes from the floor and back to Eddard Stark. The older man’s face was grave – shadowed in severity and what almost looked like grief. “I once fought to remove your grandfather from the throne. But here, in the presence of my brother, my son, and the Lord Commander, I offer to fight for your right to the Iron Throne. You were born Aemon Targaryen, sixth of his name, heir to the Seven Kingdoms. The old king is dead, and though he has brothers, I will fight for your claim should you seek it.” 

Jon slumped against the door. “I – I don’t –”

“I am the first to admit that when I met you, I wanted nothing more than to sever your head from your shoulders. But these past weeks you have proven yourself to be a true man. A man of honor. I see my sister in you. I see your father in you as well. And by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, you have a claim to the throne. Gods know we’ll need a king who understands our common enemy if we are to win the war that lies ahead.” 

Stomach churning, Jon watched in stunned silence as Lord Stark rose to stand before Jon; as he knelt and laid his sword at Jon’s feet. The very sword that mere weeks ago was scheduled to cleave him from his life. “Should you choose to pursue that which is yours by right, you have my sword.”

Before he knew it, Jon had turned the handle on the door and dashed into the freezing cold of the night. He gripped the railing so tightly it burned. Emptied his stomach down into the yard. Pushed away and somehow stumbled his way into the woods outside Castle Black. It wasn’t until Ghost emerged from the trees and pressed his nose into Jon’s cheek that the tears came, and despite his old friend’s steadfast presence, Aemon Targaryen had never felt more alone. 

*

When Jon finally returned to his chambers, he was startled to learn they were already occupied. The ancient healer that had tended to his leg before the mission to find Mance was sitting on his bed, faded black robes hanging loosely on his age-weathered bones. A man who looked to be about Jon’s age sat by the fire. He was large and round, but his wide eyes had a kindness in them Jon could see despite his own distraught mind. 

“Ah, you’ve finally returned. And to think Sam was just about to make me leave,” the old man smiled. The sound of his crinkled voice drew Jon’s attention back to the healer. Uneasily, he shut the door behind Ghost. As the great wolf curled before the warmth of the hearth, the fat crow squeaked and scooted his chair away. Jon frowned in annoyance. 

“He won’t hurt you. He just wants to be warm.”

“I – I didn’t – I don’t,” the man stammered, eyes still stuck on Ghost’s hulking form. 

“Sit with me, Jon,” the old man said, fully ignoring his companion – Sam’s – discomfort. Wearily, Jon sat beside the crow and wondered what more the gods had in store for him today. All he wanted was to sleep now – grief and disgust and anger had wrought the strength out of him. “I hope you don’t mind,” the healer continued, oblivious to Jon’s exhaustion, “but Lord Stark and the Lord Commander saw fit to inform me of your true identity.”

Jon slumped back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course they did.” He gazed over at Sam. “I suppose they saw fit to tell you too, crow?”

The man open and closed his mouth rapidly before electing to simply nod rather than speak. Ghost, and in turn Jon, could sense the nervousness rolling off of him like waves on the shore of the Shivering Sea. Somehow it irritated Jon. He turned away with a scoff. 

“Ah,” the old man continued. “They said you were upset. I see that you are still. Perhaps I can help.”

“I doubt it,” Jon grumbled. “It is no ailment of the body.”

“An ailment of the soul then? Of the heart?”

Jon nodded before remembering the crow was blind. He’d thought it odd all those weeks ago that the Night’s Watch would employ a blind healer, but then again, the more he learned about kneelers the less he understood. “Aye. I suppose so.”

“Sam, how does the prince look?”

Jon bristled at the title he didn’t want or claim and shot a glare towards the fat crow. 

“Angry, Maester Aemon,” Sam squeaked, pulling his shoulders in as if to make himself smaller in the face of danger. Jon’s eyes widened in surprise as he turned back to the healer. 

“Aemon?”

The old man smiled – a toothless, soft tug of lips that repulsed Jon as much as it strangely comforted him. “Yes, my boy. We share a name. In fact, we share more than a name. Sam, my old bones have grown weary with all this waiting. Tell him, won’t you?”

“Y-yes, Maester,” Sam stuttered. His eyes were fixed on the floor rather than on Jon. “Maester Aemon was born Prince Aemon Targaryen, fifth of his name. He is the brother to King Aegon and the son of King Maekar. Technically, I believe he is your great-great uncle.”

Jon’s eyes widened as he turned back to the old man who was once more smiling. “I wish I could see you, boy. They tell me you have the look of a Stark, but I’m sure I could find your father in you.”

“You… you knew him?” 

Maester Aemon laughed. “Of course I knew Prince Rhaegar, that dear boy. He wrote to me often and I had the pleasure of meeting him two or three times when the Lord Commander gave me leave to travel south. Such a tragedy what happened. What happened to all of them. To our family.” The elder Aemon sighed and shook his head. “Sam, tell him about the sack of King’s Landing. About the whole of Robert’s Rebellion – Now, don’t leave out the wickedness of my grandnephew. I’ve believed myself alone in the world and alone in my grief for too long.” He turned back to Jon, unseeing eyes roaming over his face. Jon stared back in stunned silence, still trying to make sense of the fact that the ancient man beside him was his family. “You are upset, but you should know that being a Targaryen is not the curse that many in this part of the world believe it to be. You should be proud, my boy.” A withered old hand reached out and touched Jon’s cheek. “Tomorrow I’ll have Sam tell you the history of our family. But for tonight, I think it will be enough that you know the tragedy of Robert’s Rebellion did not fall solely upon the poor Starks. I understand the choice that has been extended to you by Lord Stark, and as you consider it, I think it important you know of the full circumstances surrounding your birth.” The wrinkled hand dropped from Jon’s face as the old crow turned to his companion. “Tell him, Sam,” his brittle voice breathed out. “Tell him.”

An hour later Jon stared unseeing at the floor as his hand tangled in the shaggy fur on Ghost’s head. The enormous wolf had risen halfway through Sam’s tale to rest his head on Jon’s knee, no doubt sensing the man’s emotional turmoil. The fat crow’s voice had grown steadier as he spoke – as if each word gave him an inch more of confidence. By the end, the man even looked Jon in the eye. 

“So you see,” Maester Aemon rasped beside him. “The Baratheons and their allies were not as innocent as they are remembered. Poor Elia and her children are evidence of that. Should you choose to pursue your crown and reestablish our family, it will not be the resurgence of a cruel and wicked family.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think that it would be,” Jon finally said after a long moment. “I knew nothing but the basics of southern politics from Mance. And I only knew of Rhaegar and Lyanna from the Starks. I don’t… I wasn’t… distraught… because of who the family is – it is more because of who I am _not_.”

“Your whole life was a lie,” Sam said suddenly, causing Jon to whip his head towards the other man in shock that he had spoken. “It was upended once already when you were told you were the son of Lord Stark, and then now it has been upended once more. I think any man would be distraught at such news.”

Maester Aemon smiled. “Sam is wise beyond his years.” 

The crow blushed and looked at the fire again. 

“Well,” the old man sighed. “I should retire. Tomorrow Sam will tell you more. You know where to find me, Jon, and you are welcome any time. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, and I am glad to know I am no longer alone.” Sam moved to help the elder Aemon stand, but before they could begin the slow journey to the door, the old man extended his hand to Jon’s face once more. “Sam tells me you are a handsome man. Strong and capable. And that you helped the Stark girl. A man of honor. A man who faces the consequences of his actions. Your father would be proud, boy. And I am so very glad to know I am not the last of our family. I hope, in time, you will be glad for it too.”

Long after Sam and the maester left, Jon stared into the dying flames of his hearth and imagined a hundred different lives – one where his father had won the battle on the Trident. One where his mother had lived. One where he was raised in King’s Landing as a prince. One where Mance had never stolen him and he’d been raised as Lord Stark’s bastard son. One where he and Sansa had never left that hollow. One where Mance had never stolen Sansa in the first place. 

By the time he passed out from physical and emotional weariness, he was no more comfortable with the knowledge of his blood and birth than he was sure what to do with Lord Stark’s offer of a crown. 

*

Jon spent much of the next day beyond the Wall. He half expected to be stopped when he approached the gates in the morning, but beyond the wary looks of the crows who guarded it, nothing was done to stop his progression north. He and Ghost spent the morning trudging deeper and deeper into what the kneelers called the Haunted Forest before he slumped against a tree around noon lost in his own thoughts. He could simply never go back. He could keep going north and north until the cold or old age or a wight ended it all. He could try to go back to Mance. Maybe if he could persuade Val to trust him again, she could persuade Dalla who could sway Mance. He could renounce his new name and new blood. Mance was a turncloak, was he not? Perhaps there would be some leniency… 

But no. 

Did he really want to go back to Mance? To the man that had lied to him his whole life in some sick joke? 

And what about the Starks? Did he not owe them some loyalty for the gift of his life? Eddard Stark had bloody kneeled to him. Robb was… well Robb was very nearly a friend. Even Benjen had grown on him. And they were his family, were they not? Them and the healer. 

And Sansa. 

Perhaps he could return to Winterfell with Robb. 

He dropped his head back against the rough bark with an angry huff. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t go to Winterfell. He wouldn’t be welcome there. Not after what he’d done. Even if the Stark men now acted as if he had been granted forgiveness, certainly they’d never forget what he’d done. And would Sansa even want to see him? She’d barely looked at him when she left. And then, of course, Lord Stark had said Sansa’s mother was beside herself with anger and grief. Not to mention he was the son of the man who had taken Lyanna Stark from her home and the grandson of the man who had burned Rickard Stark alive while Brandon Stark strangled himself to death. 

Ghost came loping through the trees, muzzle wet with the blood of a rabbit Jon had tasted him catch an hour ago. 

“What do you think?” he asked as the wolf laid next to him, resting his head in Jon’s lap. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Jon rested his own head against the tree again. “Who should we be?” 

Ghost huffed out a puff of warm air. Letting his eyes close, Jon began to braid and unbraid the wolf’s fur as he remembered a girl with blood in her hair and the most startling blue eyes and a laugh that sounded like a song. Gods, things were simple then. Simple and good and warm. 

*

Once more, when Jon returned to his chambers late that night there was already someone waiting for him. The lord commander was sharpening the blade Jon had called his own for five years by the light of the fire. When his eyes landed on the hilt of the kneeler sword, they narrowed. Perhaps it wasn’t the same blade – but those ripples that Mance had said meant it was Valyrian steel were the same. The old crow looked up and smiled wryly when he saw Jon staring at the hilt. “Ah, you’ve noticed. You’ve got a keen eye. If you do decide to turn down Lord’s Stark’s offer, we could use you here at the Wall.”

“I’m no crow,” Jon muttered as he dropped into a seat across from Mormont. 

The older man scoffed and shook his head, but the smile on his face was almost fond now. “I heard Maester Aemon paid you a visit. I also heard Sam has been looking for you all day. That he had orders to tell you all about the Targaryens.”

Jon shrugged and looked at the fire, but it only reminded him of Rickard Stark so he turned away. “I went north.”

“Aye, I heard. Ben Stark was convinced you weren’t coming back.”

“Could you blame me if I didn’t?”

The old crow chuckled and stopped sharpening the blade. He nodded at the hilt. “It’s still the same one. I had the hilt refashioned. Made my best smith labor all day over it. Old piece of Mammoth ivory from the vaults. Those are rubies in the eyes. Told Stark my idea last night and he said he’d fund it. Aemon – the elder Aemon that is – gave me the rubies. From some old piece of princely jewelry he had, no doubt.”

Jon frowned. “It looks like Ghost.” The wolf perked his head at the sound of his name making the old crow chuckle again. 

“Well, I should hope so. It’s meant to look like him. A blade fit for a prince.”

Jon’s eyes widened with realization. “But – but I left you for dead! I stole it – you said it was a family heirloom and –“

“Aye, aye,” the old crow nodded. “I still have the bloody scars from your handiwork. I’ve lost men to you too, I’m sure. I recognized the black cloak you wore when they brought you in all those weeks ago. By all the laws of nature and of the gods, I should hate you. So, tell me, Jon, why don’t I?” 

Mouth open in surprise, Jon simply shook his head. “I have no fucking idea,” he finally muttered. “I have no idea why you and the Starks don’t hate me. You should. You all should. Screw whoever he says I am – I’ve still killed crows. I nearly killed you. I stole Sansa Stark. I have no idea why I still have my head unless it’s because kneelers are as weak as Mance always said.” 

That earned him the heartiest chuckle yet. When he caught his breath, Mormont leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know why we all trust you. Why we don’t hate you. I can’t explain it. Here,” he handed the kneeler sword to Jon.

Jon leaned back and shook his head. “No. No, it isn’t mine.”

“You won it.”

“It wasn’t a fair fight! You’re an – “

“A what? An old man?” Mormont shook his head. “Aye, I’m an old man. And I’ve held onto this blade for far too long. When a man takes the black, he gives up his House. This is my House now,” he said, clutching the black of his tunic. “I had a son once. He was my pride and joy. For too long I’ve been saving this sword to give to him, but it’s time I accept my son isn’t the man I thought he was – a man worthy of this blade.”

“But I am?” Jon asked incredulously. 

The old crow shrugged. “I suppose that remains to be seen. But here is what I believe. You know what it is we are up against. You’ve seen them. You’ve fought them. What’s more – you inhabit a unique position, Jon. You were raised a wildling, but you’ve got the blood of kings in you. Not just the dragons, but the blood of Winterfell. The way I see it, you stand to be the greatest unifier this continent has ever known. Southerners and northerners and your people north of the Wall all have _some_ tie to you. From what I’ve seen, you are a man of honor. A man who knows right from wrong. We have a war ahead of us, and we’ll need a man like you to help lead men into this Long Night. Why do the Starks and I trust you despite it all? Because you inspire that in men. That’s a talent that can’t be taught. I want you and your wolf to fight with us. I want you to lead men. I want you to set aside your crown until after this war is done and to instead help me unite the kingdom against our common foe.” 

Jon clenched his jaw. “I thought you didn’t believe in the threat.” 

“I have no shame in admitting I was wrong.”

“My parents tore the kingdom apart two decades ago. Why would anyone want to follow me?”

“Eh,” Mormont shrugged dismissively. “It was more than just your parents. King Aerys was mad. It was a matter of time. The Seven Kingdoms were a jar of wildfire just waiting for a spark.” He sighed and stood, pausing a moment before completing his thought. “I’m asking you to fight the common enemy before accepting Lord Stark’s offer, Jon. I’m not a religious man, but something tells me that we need you here. In the North, not the south. After all, nothing melts ice like dragonfire.”

Jon swallowed harshly and looked away, trying to make sense of what the old crow was telling him. Suddenly, the sword lay heavy on his lap. 

“It’s yours, boy. A sword to fight the dead with – sounds like it’s already done some of that. It’s called Lon-“

“Longclaw.”

Mormont’s eyes widened. “How-“

“You said its name when I took it. Muttered something about your family and called it Longclaw. I liked the name, and I figured the least I could do after leaving you for dead was keep it.”

The lord commander was silent for a long moment. He loomed above Jon in the half-dark, simply staring. Finally, he nodded. “Well, it is yours now. I hope you’ll heed the call. Don’t run to the woods, don’t let your ego expand to fit your newfound crown. Fight with us.”

Jon gripped the familiar blade, eyes catching on the rubies of Ghost’s eyes on the hilt. “This all feels like a dream.”

Mormont grunted. “A nightmare maybe.”

Despite himself, Jon smiled up at the old man. “Aye. A true bleeding nightmare.”

* 

The next morning, Jon found Sam and broke his fast with the man. He listened to tale after tale of the Targaryens, before interrupting and asking him about the current state of kneeler politics. Sam had blushed furiously again and stumbled over his words. Where the crow’s utter lack of confidence had annoyed Jon only a couple days before, he found himself strangely fond of the rotund man now. 

That evening, he met the Starks and Lord Commander Mormont in Lord Stark’s chambers. 

“I’ve made my decision,” he stated before the door had even closed. 

Lord Stark nodded. “And?”

Jon glanced at the old crow. He met his eye briefly before looking away. “I want to fight, but not for the southern throne. I won’t hide my identity, and I won’t discard it. But I won’t let my actions be defined by it. Maybe Aemon Targaryen would seek his throne, but Jon of the Free Folk would stay and fight the enemy in the night. I want to fight, Lord Stark. I want to fight the Others. I know you and Mance came to an agreement, I’d like to know what it was and I’d like to help." 

Lord Stark smiled then. It was a fond, proud, and almost relieved grin. After so many weeks of knowing only the solemnness of the man’s face, it looked strange to Jon. 

“Well,” Benjen Stark said from his place beside Robb Stark. “Let us begin.”

*

The letter arrived almost two moons after he learned his name. Three weeks after Robb returned to Winterfell.

He read it once. Twice. One more time. Held it over the fire for a minute, hesitation tangling in his heart, before reading it again. Crumpled it. Fixed it. Crumpled it again. Folded it carefully. Hid it in a cut in the lining of his boot and promised himself he’d forget about it. 

But he never did.

*

_Jon,_

_I have written this letter close to a hundred times by now. Each prior version has been a mess. At once, I both know what I want to tell you and have no idea how to put into words what I desire you to know._

_I hope you are well. Robb says you are – he has told me everything. Mother has as well. She learned from Father’s letters before Robb even arrived home. I’m sure you know, but Alys had a little baby boy. Robb named him Brandon, which is the oldest Stark name. It was the name of our uncle and is the name of my little brother as well. ~~Bran has gained quite the ego over it~~ Robb will return to you soon to prepare for the war. I still cannot quite believe what he says – and what you told me in that hollow – but I trust him, and I trust you. _

_I think of ~~you~~ that hollow often. ~~Do you~~ Sometimes I miss it. It was so peaceful and simple. I know you were bored and cross with me more often than not, and, truthfully, I was rather cross with you, but it was nice. It all seems like a strange dream. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t recall it as a nightmare. Certainly, it started as a nightmare, but ~~I miss~~ you were kind to me. Perhaps I am too lost in songs as Robb always tells me. He says I romanticize things far too much, but I don’t think that I do. At least not with this. It started as a nightmare, but it wasn’t all a nightmare. Not those last days. _

_Father has ended my betrothal to Joffrey. Mother won’t tell me why. Neither will Robb. Did you tell them I said he was wretched? Mother assures me that I will have a much better husband. She has hinted at the heir to Highgarden. I am still quite sure that I will die an old maid unless a man believes I still have my honor. ~~Sometimes I think about that last morning when I woke to you~~ Strangely, I am not bothered by the idea of never marrying. That isn’t to say I would be opposed to it now, because certainly if a brave and good man asked me, I would be delighted. But as a girl I had this idea of what my husband would be and now when I search for that image, I find I can no longer envision him as I once could. Besides, I am quite enamored by little Brandon and would loathe to part with my dear nephew. _

_I do hope you will visit sometime. I’ve just learned a lovely ballad about a different Prince Aemon on the harp. Do you know the story of the Dragonknight? You would love it, I’m sure. My sister thinks it is silly, but Robb told me that you were not very pleased to learn of your birth and I thought perhaps you’d like to hear about the brave and good Targaryens. Not all were like King Aerys. This Prince Aemon was honorable. He did his best to rescue his love from his wicked brother to whom she was married. At every chance, he protected her honor and even her life. So, you see, while there were bad Targaryens, there were good ones too. ~~And surely it was some relief to know that you and I are not brother and~~_

_You must be very busy now preparing for war, but please write back. It may seem foolish as we knew each other only a few short weeks, but I miss you. I still pray for you too, you know, although I’m sure Father does not intend to take your head any longer. I hope you do not find my sentiments too forward, though I’m afraid it isn’t the first time I have been too forward. ~~When I kissed~~_

_Be safe, Jon. And do please write back._

_Sansa_

_Dear, I nearly forgot. How is Ghost? I admit I miss him much more than I miss you. After all, he is far more courteous. Perhaps he is the true prince, not you._

*

Unanswered, the letter remained hidden from the world except when it was unfurled and re-read in the dim glow of a fire on cold nights after days filled with war and weariness, warming Jon more than any flame ever could. 

* 

A lifetime passed in the four years between the last time he saw Sansa Stark and the first time he saw her again – quite literally. 

Despite the circumstances of their meeting – Jon was quickly folded into the inner circle of Lord Eddard Stark and his son. Before long, he was given command of men, then of armies, then of a bloody dragon when his aunt returned to Westeros and, upon finding the recently returned Aegon Targaryen occupying King’s Landing, turned her attentions to allies in the north. 

Before the War for the Dawn was ended, Eddard Stark, Maester Aemon, and all the dragons had died.

As had Jon. 

His death came not at the hands of a wight or an Other. It came from his own men – the ones Lord Stark had given him command of – who could not set aside their hatred of the Targaryens and the free folk even in the face of the Long Night. In his final moments, as he bled out in the snow listening to Ghost tearing the throats from his murderers, all Jon could think about was blue eyes and blood-red hair and how very terribly he wanted to be warm again. 

When he woke, he remembered nothing of death. Only the sting of the daggers and the coldness of snow and the taste of other men's blood and the strange weightlessness he’d felt when he breathed his last. But the others all said he’d died – that he’d been dead for hours – that he’d risen from his funeral pyre as nude as his name day unmarred by the flames. 

Robb hugged him so tightly his cauterized wounds began to bleed again. 

Daenerys smiled proudly and told him of another pyre she had walked from years before. 

Melisandre, the red witch who’d journeyed north with the brother of Robert Baratheon – much to his aunt’s ire – had named him Azor Ahai reborn. Jon confirmed as much when it was his blade that cut through the throat of the Night King, reducing the wave of wights and Others to little more than a heap rotten corpses and shards of ice. 

But that wasn’t the end of war. 

Daenerys wasn’t fooled by Aegon’s blood claim – naming him a mummer’s farce; a cloth dragon – and vowing to restore the true Targaryens to the throne. So, when Robb, now Lord Stark, and his battered, bloody army returned to Winterfell to guide his people through the winter that did not end with the Night King’s death, Jon turned south with his aunt because his dragon blood didn’t scare him nearly as much as his wolf blood did. 

Because Sansa deserved more than an animated corpse who’d spent the better part of two years killing and who had hungered for her when she was powerless and hopeless as his captive. 

Because despite Robb’s insistence that Jon was his brother, he knew he did not have a place at Winterfell regardless of his mother’s name. 

Impossibly, the third Dance of Dragons was bloodier than even the War for the Dawn. With no actual dragons left, Aegon and Daenerys hammered at each other with massive armies, leaving rivers stained red with blood in their wake. 

Never as sure as his aunt that it was not his brother he fought, Jon let himself get lost in the carnage and terror of it all. He buried his doubt and his fear and his self-loathing as deeply as he buried his blade in the guts of others; Ghost a constant beside him ripping at men just as fiercely as his master did. 

He was already a legend in the north due to the Long Night. 

Before long, he became a legend in the south as well. 

The wolf in dragon’s clothing. 

Death itself. 

In the end, it was Daenerys’s own reckless ambition that killed her. It happened during the siege of King’s Landing. Ignoring Tyrion Lannister’s warnings of wildfire – drunk on her own ideals of fire and blood – she rained flame down on the city as she broke through the gates. In the inferno that followed, the unburnt queen became nothing more than ash and smoke. 

Jon, who’d been closing out the western front when his aunt was killed, ended the dance with Longclaw buried in the belly of the man who claimed to be his lost brother. As he watched the light leave Aegon’s violet eyes, he imagined a different life. A life where they had grown together in that very keep. A life so very different from the one he’d known north of the Wall. 

Then they named him victor and king and winter slowly melted, peace blossomed, and King’s Landing rose from the ashes like the first sprigs of grass in a farrow field. 

When he first saw Sansa Stark again, she stood before the throne with her mother and sister and brother and for the first time in four years, Jon felt whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually, I’m on the *screw Rhaegar he stole a 15-year-old girl (even if she went willingly) because he was obsessed with a prophecy* train, but here and now I am giving the man some breathing space. I’m not the biggest fan of House Targaryen, but I think painting them as “bad” in broad strokes is just wrong and reductionist. There were many very good and moderately good Targaryens (Jaehaerys, The Dragonknight, Egg, Alysanne, etc.), and to judge the whole house by a few who went power-mad isn’t right. (that said, do they deserve the attention the fandom and media and GRRM give them? No. In my opinion of course.) 
> 
> Also, I *think* I calculated the number of Aemons correctly, but I have no idea if I actually did so let’s just go with it. For the record, I fully believe book Jon’s birth name will be Aemon not Aegon and I would be more than happy to discuss this further with any of you in the comments (same with my general feelings about House Targaryen and why I do and do not like them). 
> 
> FINALLY I recognize under Westerosi laws of conquest, Stannis’s claim would be much stronger than Jon’s, but let’s roll with it. 
> 
> After this we are gonna have a big time-jump and find ourselves in a very different place. Thank you so much for your comments and I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the first half of this fic :)


End file.
